


Some Of The Faithful

by Blacksaffron



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, M/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24391399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blacksaffron/pseuds/Blacksaffron
Summary: What if the only way to move on, was to go back?
Kudos: 5





	1. Another Book Was Opened

_That there should be some fire even after this life is not incredible, and it can be inquired into and either be discovered or left hidden whether some of the faithful may be saved - St Augustine of Hippo_

* * *

Department of Mysteries, 31st October 2001.

In all the noise and chaos, she never saw the jet of light that hit her.

* * *

Hermione woke with a vicious pain in her head, a dry mouth that tasted _horrible_ , and, on carefully cracking open one crusted eyelid, then the other, the dawning realisation that she did not recognise the opulent green bed hangings above her head.

This wasn't her bed.

She squeezed her eyes shut, counting slowly to three before opening them again, hopefully.

Fuck.

This definitely wasn't her own bed. She was also, she realised, wriggling slightly under the weight of silky sheets and heavy damask coverlet , completely and utterly naked.

_Fuck_.

Okay. okay. Hermione rubbed at her sore head as she desperately tried to recall the events of the previous night. A few memory lapses after a heavy session weren't completely unheard of - see last New Year’s Eve and the missing sequence of events that resulted in her snogging _Charlie Weasley_ in the downstairs loo at Harry and Ginny’s party - but an entire night? Hermione's tummy squirmed as she gazed anxiously up at the weak sunlight filtering through the green hangings. A distinctly Slytherin green. That was ominous. She was quite sure she was not going to be happy to see the owner of those hangings, but she really needed to figure out where the hell she was, what the hell had happened last night and how to extricate herself immediately from what she was sure was going to be an exquisitely awful situation. 

Hermione held her breath and gingerly turned her head, trying her best not to rustle the sheets, to see that the other pillow was -

Oh, thank Merlin, empty.

She sat up and drew her knees to her chest under the covers. She wasn't a saint, by any means, she was a normal twenty-two year old woman with normal, healthy appetites, but she'd never found herself in quite this position before, unlike some of her friends and colleagues. Last month, Ron had woken next to one of the Patil twins, admitting when he arrived home, dishevelled and hungover, that he couldn't quite remember which one.

Harry's victory over Voldemort a couple of years ago had not brought the clear end to the war they'd hoped for. His remaining supporters - the ones wno'd managed to slip through the net after the Battle of Hogwarts, had gone underground, and while mass-murder was thankfully no longer their MO the remaining Death Eaters had split into cells, successfully gaining control of the criminal underworld, involved in everything from illegal potions supply and the trade in Dark Objects to kidnapping, assassination and murder.

Harry and Ron had accepted invitations to join the Aurory immediately, working hard to prove themselves as more than poster boys and building up an excellent reputation as investigators. Harry's recklessness had been restrained by the rigorous training and growing understanding that he needed to work as part of a team to be successful and Ron's strategic mind had truly come into its own.

Hermione had returned to study for a short while, completing her NEWTs and some independent study before accepting a role in an intriguingly new, small team in the DMLE, who studied Magical and Muggle law as well as a criminal psychology, to support the Aurory in their cases against the remaining Death Eaters and linked criminal groups.

Heavy losses in the DMLE due to the war on Voldemort - injury and deaths in action as well as those convicted of collaboration meant the department had a large number of young, war-hardened staff, who worked hard and partied harder. Hermione sighed. She might not be the first to get drunk and wake up in a strange bed but it definitely wasn't like her, and, as she racked her brain for any memories of the night before all she could recall was yells and sizzling cracks of light. Her stomach churned again, sickeningly. Had she been attacked? Had someone brought her here against her will?

Thankfully she didn't feel sore anywhere, except for the pain in her head. Hermione pushed back the sheets still feeling a vague sense of wrongness. She needed to get dressed and find her way out of here - wherever she was, she felt uncomfortably like it was somewhere she'd really rather not be - and get safely home, she could figure out the rest afterwards.

She tugged back the hangings and stood, finding herself in a luxurious, almost offensively opulent room. The panelled walls and furniture were made of a dark wood, with drapes & hangings in rich green damask and an empty fireplace she could probably stand in at one end. There was, however, no sign of any of her clothing - which added to her prickling sense of unease, or, more frighteningly, her wand.

She spied a silver-gilt mirror over an ornate dresser, and padded over. Her hair was a disaster and her eyes red-rimmed, but it could have been worse. She yanked open the dresser drawer to find a jumble of silk and lace. Whoever lived here was a big fan of peach lingerie, it seemed. The wardrobe to the left was filled with dated looking robes. Hermione paused, then shrugged. Needs must and judging by the outdated styles of the clothes she'd found, it didn't seem likely anyone would really miss them. She pulled a soft, pale blue robe off its hanger. It was, thankfully, more like a long, tiered, bell-sleeved dress, really, than the modern open robes she herself wore over jeans or a skirt. She yanked it over her head, deciding she could forgo a bra. She glanced back at the dresser, shuddering slightly at the thought of wearing an unknown woman's knickers, before plucking out the least offensive pair of peach undies she could see and pulling them on under her robe.

As she dressed she had more brief flashes of memory - of her previous day visiting an expert in the Department of Mysteries. Of Harry yelling something incoherent, lights flashing around him. It could have been a busy nightclub. It could have been a battle. It was unnerving, whatever it was. She really, really needed to find out what had gone on.

She rummaged back in the bottom of the wardrobe for shoes. Discarding several impractical pairs of satiny, bejewelled kitten heels, she managed to find a pair of flat tan boots that looked like they might fit. She sat back on the bed to tug them on before rummaging under the sheets and pillows in the hope her wand was there. No such luck. Hermione had dabbled in wandless magic but it was only really successful for simple spells. She attempted a wandless ' _accio wand_ ', not really expecting it to be successful, when a small unnoticed drawer in the dresser popped open and a wand - definitely not her own - shot out into her hand. How - worryingly convenient. 

She inspected it quickly, swishing it through the air to make sparks. It didn't feel like her own, but it felt friendly enough in her hand that she decided she was prepared to try and get out. Despite working in law enforcement, a year on the run meant Hermione had always had a rather flexible view on stealing when she thought it necessary. Anyway, once she found out where she was and what had happened last night, she could return anything she borrowed, including the wand.

The heavy bedroom door was locked but a quick _alohomora_ with the borrowed wand luckily worked and Hermione crept out of the room. Faint morning light illuminated her path as she padded carefully along the corridor. It opened out onto a wide landing with ornate, sweeping staircases, leading down to a tiled floor and, thank Merlin, what was definitely a glass-panelled front door. As she crept down the stairs she glanced down at the borrowed wand in her hand, wondering if it would work well enough for her to apparate without splinching off half her extremities.

Hermione felt slightly more confident on the ground floor near her planned escape route, enough to peer carefully through the open door to her left. She sucked in a quick, panicked breath when she saw - _bodies_ \- draped on the floor and over the furniture, before she spotted empty wine bottles littering the floor and heard a slight, rumbling snore. A party, then, and it looked like some bender, judging by the smell of stale drink and smoke and the fact that several of the slumped bodies were very underdressed - however, the empty potion-vials she spied jumbled in with smeared champagne glasses indicated it was definitely not the kind of party an up-and-coming member of the DMLE should be spotted at. 

She didn't recognise any of the faces, so she resumed her journey to the front door. It opened easily leading onto a columned stone terrace and manicured green lawns. As she turned and craned her head to get a look at the house she'd mysteriously woken in before attempting to Apparate, she felt the sudden, unmistakeable pressure of a wand-point at the back of her neck, a faint tingle of magic and a gruff, cigarette-scented whisper in her ear. 

'You, my darlin', are fucking _nicked_ '.


	2. And I Saw The Dead

Hermione froze. Unfortunately, a short two years after the war some of the more seasoned Aurors - if that's who had her at wand point - could be a little trigger happy, of the ' _hex first, ask questions later'_ variety. She opened her mouth, prepared to politely explain her predicament, when she realised the spell she'd felt tingling around her had been a wordless _silencio_. Of all the -

The disembodied voice behind tugged the borrowed wand roughly from her fist and growled,

'Get her out of the way, _quietly,_ in case we alert the others. Dearborn's waiting over by the tree line. No apparition until we're in, in case they hear the crack' _._

Hermione felt the weight of a hand on her left shoulder and smelt a rather pungent waft of musky aftershave.

'You're arresting her, not asking her for a dance, you dozy twat, get her out of my way!'

The hand firmed and slid down to her elbow, yanking her sharply. Hermione found herself being dragged quickly toward the side of the house toward a copse of trees, one hand tight on her arm, the other gripping the back of her head so tightly it was pulling her hair out of the roots. As they entered the shadows of the small copse of trees, she jammed her free elbow hard behind her, connecting with leather and a hard stomach. The man - it must have been a man, from the stink - let out an ' _oof'_ as her elbow made contact and she took advantage, spinning to face him. She had a moment to take in the stubbled jaw, mirrored sunglasses and leather jacket before the arsehole scowled, grabbing her wrist and twisting sharply.

The silent scuffle that followed ended with Hermione being grasped by the hips and flung up over a broad shoulder, a heavy arm gripping her thighs and her feet dangling level with his denim-covered waist. As if sensing where her thoughts, and her foot, were travelling the man slapped her, hard, on her bottom.

'Don't you fucking dare!'

She stopped wriggling and fumed. Had this pig even read her _Codes of Practise (April 1999)_ for arrest? He was in for a nasty shock when they got back to headquarters and he found himself in front of the disciplinary panel. About to start mentally drafting her complaints form, she was surprised by the sound of slow applause from the shadows. She tried to stretch her head up - rather difficult in her current position - and managed to catch a glimpse of a third, older looking man waiting in the dim green light under the trees.

'Er, sorry, Sir, she's a bit of a spitfire, this one', grumbled the prick who was holding her, his arm still much closer to the cheeks of her bum than she was happy with. He had quite a cultured accent, once he wasn't swearing at her, she noticed, with a slight London twang. The other had a deeper voice, with a definite Welsh lilt to it.

'I can see that, lad. Not quite what you'd expect from one of Malfoy's usual whores, is she?'.

Malfoy's... _usual whores?_ Whores? _Draco Malfoy?_ School nemesis, failed Death Eater and Wizardwear fashion designer - who'd come out in rather spectacular fashion after getting caught with Neville Longbottom in Greenhouse Six during their last year in school? And it couldn't be his father, he'd - she must have misheard them.

Welsh accent stepped closer, two-tone tips of polished brogues and a dark robe-hem stopping under Hermione's bowed face. He placed two gloved fingers under her chin, lifting her face so she was looking into lined, bright blue eyes under bushy greying eyebrows. She scowled at him and he chuckled.

'Definitely not his usual. This bird looks more like a librarian than a prozzie'.

Hermione would have glared fiercely at his cheek but he'd already dropped her chin and turned, leading her captor further into the shadows. Her head spun as she bounced on the git's shoulder. She was absolutely spitting mad at the attitude of the men she'd encountered. Is this what it was really like for women who found themselves in this position? As soon as she was back at headquarters, they found out who she was and she got to the bottom of what on earth had happened to her she would be having strong words with Gawain Robards about his Auror's attitude to women. The casual sexism, derogatory language and lack of empathy towards pro - _sex workers -_ never mind that she wasn't actually one of them _._

She'd worked herself up to such a state of righteous rage she missed the distant shouts and screams from the mansion behind her, only snapping back when the older man announced,

'Right, kiddo, you've got your hands full there, I reckon. Get her back to headquarters and into a holding cell before getting back here, we'll question her later'.

The bastard holding her jostled her roughly.

'Alright, babe, I'm Apparating us back to HQ. If you puke on me there'll be hell to pay'.

She thumped her fist _hard_ on the leather - clad back and heard a barking laugh before the crack and stomach-churning swirl of Apparition _._

* * *

They landed in the Ministry atrium and Hermione was unceremoniously dropped to her feet by the lifts. The man beside her bent his elbow toward her, politely, like a Pureblood escorting his witch and she was about to tell him exactly where he could stick it before realising she was still caught under the Silencing spell.

_Fucking dickhead,_ she mouthed at him

He grinned wolfishly at her under the ridiculous mirrored sunglasses.

'I love a fierce woman. They're always absolute _animals_ in -

The lift dinged, and the doors slid open smoothly.

'Empty, fabulous. Come on!’

He tugged her in and pushed the shiny brass button for the first floor. Hermione frowned, confused. When she'd been brought onboard as a specialist for cases previously, the Aurors usually used the holding cells and interview suite on the lower ground level. Although, despite the questionable treatment of the last hour, if they thought she was a - a sex worker of some kind, it made sense she'd be brought up and questioned in an office, as presumably she would be a witness, not a suspected criminal. At least they'd look after her, she was desperate for a cup of tea and a trip to the loo before the eagerly-anticipated satisfaction of explaining they’d arrested one of their own colleagues by mistake.

The lift doors opened and Hermione was guided out towards a -

_Huh._ That desk hadn't been there the last time she'd been to see Harry and Ron, and the moustachioed officer behind it was unknown to her. Had she mistaken the floor they were on?

Her keeper finally removed his sunglasses. What _did_ he think he looked like, wandering around inside in them? _Prick_. He turned to look at her and at last she got a proper look at his face. He was very good-looking, and clearly knew it, with his smirking expression, come-to-bed eyes and one-too-many buttons undone on the black shirt under his leather jacket. Was he wearing a _medallion_? There was something about him she vaguely recognised, although she was sure she didn't remember him from Hogwarts _._

The officer behind the desk coughed to regain their attention.

'I just need a couple of details for my form and then I'll take you to a holding cell to wait for questioning, Miss'. He turned to her companion.

'Auror, I just need your name and badge number.'

'Oh, badge number 8883. I’m Auror Trainee Black. Er, Sirius Black'.

She gaped. What the _fuck was -_ was this some kind of a sick prank? She opened her mouth and _-_

_Damn fucking silencing spell!_

She waved her hand angrily at the desk officer, pointing at his quill and parchment. Mildly confused, he handed both over a little nervously and she scrawled across it, glancing at the boxes labelled 'date' and 'time'. If she hadn't been so distracted she might have asked a more pertinent question instead of:

'WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!’. Hermione pointed at her words and then back at the man. If this was a joke it was a really, really sick one.

He ran a hand through wavy, black, shoulder length hair and smirked at her. He glanced quickly at the bewildered looking officer and leaned closely in to her ear, whispering.

'Auror Sirius Orion Black at your service, babe, but if you want the floo number it'll have to wait till later'.

Hermione fainted.

* * *

Disclaimer-not for profit, just for fun. Anything you recognise is not mine.


	3. Everyone Must Give Account

...

‘Asked me my name and then she actually _fainted!_ Just wait till I tell...’

_’Mione, please, you weren’t meant to-‘_

’She was probably overcome by the fumes of your fucking aftershave, Black, did you _bath_ in it?’ 

_‘How did they even get in, they’re top of the Wanted posters and there’s so many security checks now-‘_

’It was a present for my birthday, it’s a Muggle one, actually, because I - well, one of their football players wears it, you know, he’s in all the posters-‘

 _’Was she their target, did they_ know _she’d be there?’_

’The fuck, Black?’

_‘-someone raised the alarm and by the time we got up there it was mayhem, curses flying-‘_

‘Er, well, it’s like Muggle Quidditch, Sir, they all -‘

 _‘hit her and she fell-_ fuck _-she fell into -‘_

‘I know what fucking _football_ is, arsewipe. Go and get me a pain potion and a pack of fags before we start these fucking interviews’ 

‘Sir’

...

_’Hermione, love, you need to’_

’Time to wake up’

_’wake up’_

’Oi! Sleeping Beauty! Time to wake up, sunshine!’

Hermione opened her eyes and blinked rapidly to clear them up. She’d been lying on a low bench in what was clearly some kind of a cell-tiled walls and floor and a metal door with a small grill on it. The door was open, and in the doorway stood the smirking, Sirius-imposter (smug git) and a shorter, stockier, decidedly more imposing figure with sandy, shoulder length hair and a grizzled, weather-beaten face, in full length, battered leather robes over waistcoat and trousers. He had a small, brownish smear under his left earlobe and a half-smoked cigarillo hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

He puffed on it, eyeing her, the small room fugging up with its disgusting stink. 

Hermione coughed into her fist, delicately.

The man raised a brow and blew a thin stream of smoke towards her. He watched her for a few seconds before turning and growling - 

’Black, bring your new bird along and let’s find out who the fuck she is and what the fuck- or who the fuck, as it may be - she was doing last night’.   
  


Faux-Sirius hauled her up and let her out of the cell and down a dingy corridor. Parchment memos fluttered in and out of the open doors off either side and she heard muffled shouts and swearing from the cells behind her. The place stank of cigarette smoke and she curled her lip in disgust. It wasn’t unheard of for witches and wizards to smoke - pipes or Muggle cigarettes - or other, less legal options - but it was mainly the older generation or teenagers wanting to rebel. Harry had had a brief go during his _‘misunderstood’_ phase in Fifth Year, until Hermione’d convinced him no-one would ever want to kiss him unless he stopped. In _fact_ , back then she’d had a strong suspicion Sirius was guilty of supplying them, even though he claimed to have nicked them off his cousin Dudley. Anyway, smoking certainly wasn’t common in the workplace - wizarding or Muggle - and she wasn’t used to the fug and smell of it. She felt a bit sick.

Thinking of her stomach reminded her that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten or drank anything and - come to think of it - she really did need the loo quite desperately.

She tugged on the sleeve of supposed-Sirius’ leather jacket. 

‘Need something, pet?’

_The fucking spell still hadn’t -_

He gazed down at her quizzically, the corner of his mouth twitching as she danced on the spot, her need becoming very urgent now she’d taken notice.   
  
She scowled, trying to mouth what she needed at him.

He cupped a hand around his ear.

’Can’t hear you, love. Sure there’s nothing you need before we start? Could be in there a while...’

Hermione gave him a Basilisk-worthy stare and began to mime what she needed as he burst into laughter, silently mouthing the absolute _worst_ words she could think of at him - and she knew a lot, she’d hung around with Ginny Weasley for a very long time - until -

‘Oh, for - _finite incantatem,_ you daft bint,’ the older Auror snapped from further down the corridor.

’cking piss on _you,_ you absolute cock-‘

Hermione stopped as she realised she could finally hear her own voice again. First things first though, she turned to the grizzled Auror and asked, as politely as she could stand,

’I’ve been here for _quite_ a while, can I _please_ use the lavatory before we start? You should have _asked_ me, actually, it’s definitely one of my rights in the new guidelines’

He rolled his eyes and snapped at the still-sniggering juvenile bloody _idiot_ beside her.

’Black! Take her in and _wait outside the stall_. Two minutes! I’ll be in room eleven. Knew I shouldn’t have fucking got up this morning’.

He stomped off in a dirty grey cloud of smoke, mumbling under his breath.

She whirled to face her tormentor and he held up both hands in surrender.  
  
‘Look, I’m sorry, that was unkind of me-just - pee first and then talk, okay?’   
  
Bodily needs took over Hermione’s need to ask questions and she ducked into the door he pointed out and whisked into the stall.

She pulled down the horrid, stolen peach knickers, sat on the loo and paused. 

’If you’re going to stand there and wait could you at least - turn a tap on or hum or something?’ 

He did both turning one of the taps on full-blast and loudly humming - was that Fleetwood Mac? She snorted. His other, older? self had given the impression he was of more of an AC/DC type.

She braced her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. But what was this? Was she having some kind of hallucination? The snippets of memory and conversation she recalled from her sleep in the cell seemed to indicate she’d been injured, somehow. Was she really in St Mungos, delirious with potions? She couldn’t decide if that was a better alternative than the other, creeping fear. _Something_ had happened to her, in the Department of Mysteries. Something bad, that had resulted in her ending up - _somewhere_ _else_. Her stomach dropped as she remembered the desk officers form - she’d been too angry at the thought someone was playing a sick game with her at the time to properly take in the details on the parchment, but she could now recall it with clarity:

 _1st November 1979._

She rubbed her eyes. _Come on Granger, think!_ There were a lot of strange things investigated in the Department of Mysteries but no magic existed to send someone twenty-odd years into the past. She knew that, she’d studied everything there was to know about Time Turners in her third year and the furthest they would ever go back was 24 hours - of _course_ \- otherwise you’d be able to just go back and fix _everything._ No magic existed that would send someone back that far into their own past, that she knew of.

So if she wasn’t in her _own_ past -

She stood and flushed. Hallucination. It must be. Her subconscious mind had obviously created this bizarre situation. Her psychology books would be able to explain the reasoning behind the cast of characters her mind had created - god - waking up naked in strange situations - everyone had those dreams and being mistaken for a prostitute was probably some deep-seated need to prove someone might want her for more than her brains. Whatever, wherever she was, she needed to figure out what to in the immediate situation she’d found herself in. 

Taking a deep breath to reassure herself, she unbolted the door and strode out to wash her hands next to Sirius, who was primping his hair in the mirror.

’Birds always get better facilities, don’t they? This place is practically _welcoming_ compared to the men’s bogs’.

’You should have seen the girls bathrooms at Hogwarts, she said, rinsing off the soap. ‘I don’t think I had a comfortable wee until I got to use the Prefect’s bathroom in Fifth Year.’

He looked at her sharply out of the corner of his eye and she was suddenly reminded that, in this world, he was an Auror, despite his idiotic behaviour.

’Funny’, he said. ‘You look a similar age to me, and I was at Hogwarts. Don’t remember you though, and you’d think I would, pretty as you are’. 

Hermione smiled, weakly. ‘Well, I, er, I’m not really, and I was very quiet - and - I’m pretty sure I definitely wouldn't have been your _type_ ’.

’Oh?’ He said softly, raising an elegant black brow. ‘And what would you know about-‘ 

The Patronus appearing through the door made them both jump.

’Black, if you’re _shagging_ _my fucking suspect in there_ I’ll take the life sentence for the Unforgivable and enjoy it. Get the _fuck_ out of there and into my office!’

‘Sirius’ pointed at her and muttered, ‘ _later_ ’, before ushering her back into the corridor ‘Come on, Moody really doesn’t like to be kept waiting’.

‘Moody? _Alastor_ Moody?’

’Heard of him, have you? Be a good girl and tell the truth, and you’ll be fine’.

He opened the door marked ‘11’ and gestured to the empty seat in front of the desk. He closed the door and leant back against it, and Hermione turned to face the older man at the desk. 

‘We’ve wasted enough time today, pet. Talk’.

Hermione sat straight in her chair and lifted her chin. If he wanted a DMLE de-briefing, fine.

’I woke up this morning with no idea where I was, or how I’d got there. I was- _undressed_ -and there were no sign of the clothes I believe I had been wearing the day prior.

’Surely that’s a normal part of your...’

She raised a finger. ‘I am _not_ , nor have I ever been, a sex worker and I don’t understand why you’re so convinced I am one - not that there’s anything wrong with that line of work. I work for a department in the DMLE, often supporting the Auror team. My particular area of study is criminal psychology. Unfortunately, I don’t remember what happened to me last night. I woke with a headache - and although yes, I know, that could indicate a hangover - combined with the flashbacks I’ve had of some kind of battle and the complete memory loss I’m starting to believe I was attacked and have suffered some kind of brain injury. I’m quite sure you are a hallucination, actually. Whatever happened, your _team_ are a bloody _disgrace_ with no understanding of correct procedure or _appropriate_ treatment of detainees. Can you please explain where I am, where I _was_ today and why the bloody hell you silenced and arrested me!

She ran out of puff, and sat back to take a breath.

Moody rubbed his face in his hands, emerging with ruffled eyebrows and bloodshot eyes. He leaned back in his chair, pulled a fresh cigarillo out of a crumpled packet and stuck it in his mouth, lighting it with the tip of his wand.

’See we need to start simple. What’s your name, girl?’

’Woman. My name’s Hermione Granger’.

His head shot up and the cigarillo dropped out of his open mouth onto his lap and he cursed, brushing at the ash. There was a soft, choking noise behind her.

Moody stubbed out the end of his fag and stuffed it behind his ear for safekeeping.

’ _What_ did you say your name was?’

’Hermione Granger’ she repeated, excitedly, wondering if she was about to get an explanation of the bizarre events of the last twenty-four hours. Perhaps it was a prank, after all.

‘Hermione Granger’, Moody repeated. ‘The same _Hermione Granger_ who’s joining this department as - what’s the job, Black?’

’DMLE liaison, it says on her office door, Sir?’

_Office door? Here?_

’DMLE liaison’.

He lurched up from the chair towards the full bookshelf at the side of the room. Pulling out a dusty tome, he reached behind and brought out a bottle of Firewhisky. He yanked out the cork and took a healthy swig before slouching back into his seat.

‘Fucking _hell,_ how do we explain this absolute balls-up? The whole thing was a bloody disaster from start to finish! New officer arrested at a Death Eater revel on suspicion of being a paid whore? The _only_ successful arrest of the day and she works for _my sodding department!_ I don’t suppose you were undercover?’ he asked Hermione, hopefully. 

‘Er,’ said Hermione, her mind spinning. She felt like she’d missed a few things along the way and she was rapidly loosing track of where the conversation was going. 

’Right, right, fucking _memory_ loss as if we didn’t have enough to be dealing with. Although-‘

He grudgingly handed her the bottle of whisky and she wiped the neck with her sleeve before taking a big mouthful. She coughed as it went down, but took another. And another. 

After some time Moody sighed.

‘Alright. We attended the scene after a tip-off from an informant that several suspected Death Eaters and associates were guests at a party organised by Lucius Malfoy.’

His mouth twisted.

‘Malfoy has been suspected of being one of them for some time but we’ve never managed to pin any evidence on the slimy git. Our brand spanking new officer-’

He nodded at Hermione,  
  
‘-went in undercover to see what she could find out, but in the course of events she was injured in the line of duty and can’t remember a blasted thing. We entered the building this morning to rescue our officer, maintaining her cover by staging an arrest. Unfortunately, on entering the property there was no sign of any suspected Death Eaters. Three cautions were given for possession of illegal recreational Potions and a seventeen year old Muggle was taken into our custody and is being looked after by Muggle Liaison while we try and locate her parents. Black, why the fuck aren’t you writing this down? Granger, give me back my whisky’. 

He swigged from the bottle as Sirius scribbled rapidly on a sheet of parchment he’d balanced against the wall. Finishing with a flourish, he disappeared out of the door for a few minutes. Moody watched Hermione fidget before he breezed back in. 

‘All passed on to the Deputy Head, boss. He wants to see you tomorrow morning, though. Both of you’.

Moody sighed glumly into his whisky bottle. 

‘Fuck it. Come on, Miss Amnesiac. Black. Team meeting’.

Hermione looked between the two men. ‘Team meeting? What is _happening_?!’ 

Sirius sighed. ‘He means, we’re going to the pub’.

* * *

Disclaimer: Just for fun, not for profit. Anything you recognise, I don’t own. 


	4. Whatever Your Hand Finds To Do

* * *

Moody led the way back to the atrium before giving Sirius a curt nod.

'Leaky'.

He disapparated with a crack and waft of stale smoke.

The sod next to her smirked. 'I'll Side - Along you again, pet. Come on.'

Before she had chance to protest that she knew how to get to the Leaky Cauldron _perfectly well_ , thanks, he slid an arm around her waist, winking at her before he disappeared in the stomach-churning swirl of Apparition.

They landed in a dark alleyway next to the pub. Just like in - the real world? Her own time? it was dirty and dank, with overflowing rubbish bins and faded, peeling posters plastered to the walls - only, unlike the last time she'd been here, the posters showed women in skimpy outfits advertising cigarette brands, a disco night at a nightclub. Distracted, she allowed Sirius to guide her towards the dingy entrance of the pub. It was empty apart from a pretty woman wiping glasses at the bar. 

He ushered her in, gesturing towards a table before turning to the bar. He looked mildly confused as she joined him, propping herself up on the polished bar, eyeing up the taps.

'Er, why don't you take a seat, love, I'll bring you a drink over'.

'But you don't even know what I'd like, yet?'

Sirius paused.

'Sorry, I just presumed you'd want a glass of wine, that's what my mates' m- er - all my girl -'

'Bugger off Black, I'm not one of your girlfriends, and I'm having a very long, very confusing day. Hallucination. Whatever. I'll have a-'

Moody leant over her and waved at the curvy barmaid. 'Pint of ale and a whisky chaser'.

'Ooh, yes. That, please', said Hermione.

Sirius looked vaguely scandalised, ordering her drinks from the barmaid with a raised brow. Moody ushered her to a table, half hidden in the shadows, as Sirius flirted with the barmaid while she poured their ale, before levitating a tray of drinks over. He handed over the dimpled pint glasses to her and Moody before placing down his own glass carefully on the table and Banishing the empty tray back to the bar.

It was Hermione's turn to raise a brow at the tall, brightly coloured concoction in front of him, with its Charmed paper umbrella twirling at the side.

'Is that a Tequila Sunrise?'

He scowled. 

'The Rolling Stones drink them, you know'.

Moody rolled his eyes before draining his glass and belching, waving his empty glass at the bar before giving Hermione a challenging look.

She smiled, innocently, before raising her own mug and chugging down the ale. She wiped the foam off the top of her lip, delicately, before placing down the empty mug, saluting Moody with the whisky glass and downing it in one. She'd been best friends with two loved but loutish boys for a decade, it wasn't the first time someone had underestimated her. Sirius' mouth hung open and Moody barked a laugh, signalling to the bar for another for her, too. She seemed to have passed an unspoken test.

'Well, you might not _remember_ how you've ended up here, sweetheart, but I've a feeling you're going to fit right in. ‘And,’ he squinted at a pocket watch chained to his waistcoat, ‘wherever you've _come from_ , and wherever your allegiances lie, you're definitely not a Death Eater on Polyjuice, it’s been hours'.

He looked at her, beadily, over the rim of his whisky glass and spoke again, softly, but with implicit threat all the same.

'Where _did_ you come from, though, I wonder?'

The back of her neck prickled, uncomfortably. She'd pretty much convinced herself that the scenario she'd found herself in was some kind of - very realistic - hallucination, but the feel of the scratched wooden table beneath her fingertips and the smoky warmth of the whisky on her tongue felt so very real. In the worst case scenario, that she really had ended up - somewhere else, back in time, as impossible as that was - she needed to survive here until she could figure out how to get home. If it was a hallucination, perhaps there was something she needed to do, to complete, before she could - wake up?

Either way, the last thing she wanted to do was raise Moody's suspicions of her further and end up back in a cell or - Merlin forbid - Azkaban, suspected of being a Death Eater spy - before she had chance to figure things out. 

She sighed. 'Look - _whatever_ happened to me over the last few days - I'm meant to be part of your department, according to you, even if I can't yet remember the lead-up. I'm sure I will. My parents are Muggles and I've been fighting against Death Eaters longer than you'd believe. I'm on your side. I want to help, to work with you.'

She paused as a second tray of drinks landed on the table and took a sip, slowly this time, from her drink.

'I'm not stupid, I know you're not going to trust me immediately, but it looks like we are going to have to work together'.

Moody inclined his head, slightly.

'So it seems, pet. I'm watching you, though'.

They eyed each other before Sirius broke the silence, pointing toward them with his straw,

'Mutual distrust aside, what are we going to do about tomorrow?'

'Eh?' asked Moody, sticking a fag in his mouth and lighting it with his wand-tip. He offered the paper packet to Hermione and she scrunched up her nose in distaste, shaking her head.

'The meeting with the Deputy Head, about what happened today?'

'Oh, bloody _bollocksing_ hell', growled Moody. He pointed at the two of them. 'Story stacks up if everyone sticks to it, but it still means it was an absolute fucking balls-up, with no result after two weeks' surveillance, apart from rescuing Dolly Daydream here', he muttered, waving at Hermione. 'Our budget's already been cut and we're no closer to finding any dirt on Malfoy, except for his taste in birds with loose knickers, and the boss already thinks I've got an unreasonable obsession with the man.'

Sirius snorted into his glass before holding up his hands in surrender as Moody glowered at him.   
  


'Look, you know I agree with you, but he has half the Ministry in his pocket, and we'll have to find something more substantial than witnesses placing him at a few Pureblood parties. It’s a big leap from there to us proving he’s gallivanting around murdering in his spare time'.

Hermione sipped her drink, thoughtfully. The Lucius Malfoy she knew of had been accused of being a Death Eater in the first war, escaping punishment by claiming to have been under the Imperius curse, only to rejoin Voldemort after his return in their fourth year of school. Toward the end of the war, according to Draco, he'd regretted his commitment to his insane Master and, to be fair, in the final battle at Hogwarts his only priority had seemed to be finding his son. He'd been convicted and sentenced to Azkaban - which was justified, but had died there earlier that year at the hands of some of his former allies. Hermione's department had begun investigating how they'd gained access to his cell, suspecting the involvement of some of the guards, whether for reward or revenge. The decision to investigate had not gone over well with some of the Auror department, who saw it as betrayal of their own for the benefit of a dead man, guilty of so many crimes of his own, but Hermione's job was to seek justice, for anyone, however irredeemable they might seem. 

She drummed her fingers on the wooden table top. _When had Lucius' allegiances been discovered, back then? Perhaps that's what she was here to do?_

She turned to Moody. 'What was the real plan, today?’

He drained his glass and waved it at her. ‘Another?'

Hermione and Sirius nodded and Moody lurched to his feet, stabbing his fag-end into the glass ashtray. 

'Tell her, Black, while I have a piss and get another round in. You're having a proper drink this time, mind, I'm not ordering one of them poncy things'.

Sirius pouted, before beginning his story. An informant had led them to believe a party had been arranged, with known and suspected Death Eaters to be in attendance. Malfoy had been known to throw wild, extravagant parties for the wealthy Pureblood men, where they drank to excess and cavorted with women. It was suspected Malfoy invited Ministry officials to his parties, in order to seduce them into his lifestyle and accept bribes to emulate him, or to gain valuable blackmail material on them. If they could catch him in the company of wanted Death Eaters, it would strengthen their case against him as well as raising questions about his relationships within the Ministry. There were also, unsubstantiated rumours, about what might be happening at more exclusive gatherings, amongst those with darker tastes. 

Moody plonked three pint glasses on the table as Sirius finished, handing Hermione an ale and pushing a pint of bitter toward Sirius.

'Finally put some hairs on your chest that will, lad'. 

'Piss off, Sir', huffed Sirius, unbuttoning yet another button and pulling open his shirt to show that _really_ wasn't something he had to worry about.

Moody snorted. 'Put your tits away, Black, in case she faints again.'

Sirius preened. Hermione rolled her eyes. 'Black's virtue is _perfectly_ safe from me, er - Sir.'

Sirius sipped at his pint, pulling a face at the bitterness. He glanced around the bar before leaning in towards them, stating quietly -

'You know, the undercover story, it's not actually the worst plan. Not that I want to put Granger at risk but it would be far easier to sneak her into a do, especially as she's not really been seen by anyone in the office, yet, and the _guests_ are less likely to ask questions of a girl, especially if they think she's a tart. All we knew is a new bird was starting in the department as a liaison officer - whatever that is -

'It's the link between the Auror squads and the legal and administrative branches of the DMLE', Hermione interrupted.

Sirius waved a hand, 'Well, what I mean is, no-one in our department would recognise you yet as they've not met you - if any of our men are in Malfoy's pocket they can’t break your cover as they’ve never seen you - the only person who's seen you, apart from the boss and I, is the desk sergeant - and you never gave him your name, he just knows you were taken in for questioning. It backs up the story that you're a - erm - _you know_ \- and would give you a cover story, if anyone saw you with me at the Ministry.’

Hermione goggled. _Was he seriously suggesting she -_

Moody stroked his chin, thoughtfully. 'You know, that's actually not a bad plan, Black. We'd need to get her something better to wear though, and that _hair_...?'

Hermione wondered what the consequences would be if she hexed her supposed brand new boss. 

Sirius looked her up and down slowly and she crossed her arms over her breasts.

'I can sort all that out. If she is going under cover she better not be seen at the Ministry till we're done, though, you better go in on your own, tomorrow. I can meet Granger and we'll sort out some clobber and her cover story while we try and get her into a party'. 

Moody nodded and opened his mouth as Hermione slammed her hands on the table, making the empty glasses rattle.

'Isn't anybody going to ask me if I'm _comfortable_ going along with this?!'

Moody raised his eyebrows at Sirius, mouthing, ' _women_ '.

Hermione felt her face heating in rage and she balled her fists.

Sirius turned to her. 'Er, would you not want to do it, then? It's okay if you're too scared'. 

'I'm not too bloody - yes, I'll do it, it's not a bad plan, actually - as long as you mean _spying_ , not pimping me out for information - but if we're meant to be a team you should _consult_ me, not make assumptions'.

Sirius grinned, missing everything apart from the ' _yes_ '. ‘Well, obviously, you wouldn’t be _doing_ anything with them, just getting names, er, _flirting_ , you know, make them feel important and they’ll tell you all sorts. Pay attention to what you see and hear and report back.’

He rubbed his hands together.

'Right, another for the road, then, to celebrate a successful plan?'

Moody hauled himself to his feet. 'You two carry on and work on what you need to get her sorted. I want you in for briefing at 8 sharp, mind, Black.'

Hermione remembered suddenly - 'Er, _Sir_ -do you think I could have my wand back now?'

Moody looked nonplussed for a second before digging into the large pockets of his leathery robe, pulling out handfuls of detritus - Hermione spied everything from fishing twine, spare socks, broken quills and a pair of battered Muggle handcuffs before he unearthed the wand she'd found that morning. He examined it for a moment before begrudgingly handing it over.  
  


'Anything else, Granger?',

'Erm, well - I - I need somewhere to stay, Sir, until I can get-'  
  


'For fuck's sake, Granger, he growled. Black, sort out a room here, _discreetly_ , add it to the tab and don't forget to give a false name for the register in case anyone spots her.' 

He fished a handful of galleons out of the mess on the table before stuffing the rest back in his pockets.

'Here', he said, gruffly, dropping them into her hand. 'For expenses, until you get sorted. Black will sort your _costume_.’

He stomped away before she had chance to thank him, waving at the barmaid, before turning sharply on his heel and marching back toward them.

'No _fraternising_ ,' he hissed, pointing between them. 'Not on my team. Black - keep your underpants on. You - don't let him in your knickers.'

Sirius saluted and Hermione pulled a face. 'Not a problem, boss!' 

Moody looked dubious, but turned and made his way out of the pub.

Sirius leaned his elbows on the table and winked at her. 'More bark than bite, the boss, although he doesn’t know me as well as he thinks he does. Come on love, let's get a last round in, sort out your room, then I'll help you choose your new wardrobe'.

* * *

Disclaimer-not for profit, just for fun. Anything you recognise is not mine.


	5. Difficult and Subtle Questions

The bizarre events of the past twelve hours, four pints of ale and the surreal experience of going shopping with a twenty-odd year old Sirius Black were starting to catch up with Hermione, and she dragged her feet a little as they headed towards the far end of Diagon Alley. 

She’d managed to get a couple of plain robes off the rack at the tailors - which looked a lot like the modern-day Madame Malkin’s, only with a different proprietor. Thankfully, the everyday robes here weren’t that much different, apart from the detailing and muted colour range and she’d managed to get a warm rust cloak which she’d thrown on immediately after Sirius commented on the frigid temperature, glancing at her chest.

‘Come on!’ he urged, excitedly. ‘This is the fun bit, now, we need to get you in character!’ He tucked her arm into his and marched her to the left into-

‘Black, is this _Knockturn Alley_?’

He rocked on the balls of his feet, hands shoved in his pockets, grinning. ‘Yeah, we need to get you an outfit to wear for your role, don’t we? Come on, I’ve always wanted to get a look in here’, he whispered conspiratorially, gesturing at a seedy looking shopfront, with a painted, posing scantily clad witch on the swinging wooden sign. When she saw them looking, the image bent over, showing off her painted stocking tops and blowing a kiss over her shoulder.

Hermione grabbed his elbow to hold him back. ‘I can’t go in there!’ she hissed. ‘It looks like some kind of a sex shop! I don’t go in places like that!’

Sirius looked down his straight, sharp nose at her. ‘How are you going to pull this off if you’re blushing like that at the thought of some skimpy knickers? Come on, Granger!’

He strode forwards and tugged open the door. Hermione dithered, then followed him in. The door was low and Sirius had to duck under the mantle to get in. He straightened up and his eyes opened wide as he took in his surroundings, a blush spreading slowly across his cheeks. He thrust his hands in his pockets and then pulled them back out, hurriedly, gawking around them at the goods on display.

Hermione felt a little more confident now she was inside and looked around curiously. This was nothing to be ashamed of, after all, consenting adults had the right to do whatever they liked, she reminded herself, as she examined the displays and mannequins. The air was thickly scented with an unusual incense. It smelt rather like old parchment, with fresh mown grass, and - _Amortentia_ , she realised, it had been used to scent the room. 

Sirius stood, determinedly looking at a tall potions cabinet, filled with little glass bottles and jars of varying shapes and sizes, as if trying to avoid looking at anything too graphic. She peered around his shoulder. 

‘Virility potions? It’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know, it happens to lots of-‘

‘I wasn’t looking at - that is _not_ something I - fucks’ _sake_ , Granger, I’m trying not to - I didn’t want you to think I was some kind of perv - _what_ are you looking at?!’, he hissed, as she bent to get a closer look at a velvet-lined display case containing four -

‘Ooh, look at these! Each one has the icon of one of the Hogwarts’ houses on the end! Imagine wandering around with Slytherin’s snake up your-’

‘Granger!’ he hissed, scandalised. She giggled at him, realising his suave, self-assured Casanova persona was a bit of an act, after all. His awkwardness reminded a her a little of twenty year old Harry.

‘What did you think it would be like in here?’

‘We used to dare each other to come in here when we were kids - we thought it would be funny - _Playwizard_ and sexy Mediwitch costumes, not _torture implements_ ’, he muttered, darkly, waving at a display of bejewelled nipple clamps.

He ran a hand through his hair. ‘It looks like there’s clothes over there, come on, the sooner we get out of here the better.’

Toward the back of the store were several painted red rails with little outfits displayed on coat-hangers. Expecting something extreme, Hermione was surprised to see a lot of the outfits looked rather Muggle - very skimpy - but styles girls could have worn in nightclubs in Muggle London. She examined the clothes on the hangers thoughtfully.

Sirius seemed to have gotten past his awkwardness and joined her in looking through the garments. He didn’t seem as uncomfortable looking at the clothing, as if it was something he was more used to. 

‘Black?’

‘Mmhmm?’

‘These clothes - they’re very- Muggle, for Knockturn, aren’t they?’

He tilted his head on one side, and looked rather ashamed.

‘You’re Muggleborn, aren’t you? Not- not that there’s anything wrong with that’.

Hermione nodded. Sirius checked to make sure the room was still empty and stepped closer, bending his head to speak in a low voice. ‘Granger - some wizards - they’re - turned on by things that are taboo. Very traditional Purebloods have rarely- if ever- interacted with Muggles, but they see them occasionally on the street, they see Muggleborns at Hogwarts even if they don’t speak with them.’ He bit his lip.

‘For men who’ve grown up with proper, cold, Pureblood girls, who dress in full robes and are brought up to wait for marriage, the way some Muggle women dress, and act, is indecent, but intriguing. They think the way they dress and act means they’re - well - whores. They’ve never been in a nightclub so these kind of clothes would be as risqué as - lingerie - perhaps, they’ll never have seen so much skin.

I grew up in a traditional Pureblood house and I’d never even seen a girl in trousers before Hogwarts. It’s different for a lot of us younger ones-we wear Muggle as well as wizarding clothes, they’re much cooler, and it’s a statement of where your political views lie’, he gestured down at his own jeans and leather jacket, ‘but this kind of stuff would be shocking to some.’

‘So wearing something like this at a Pureblood party would be almost like being dressed like a stripper or something, to them? Isn’t this exactly what the Death Eaters are trying to get rid of?’

‘Sort of, they’d find it distasteful, but be ogling you too. Wizards are still men, unfortunately, love. They can hate, fear and lust after the same thing. In fact, the fact that they lust after those they see as so far beneath them fuels their disgust. Malfoy-whatever his views on purity-is a very clever manipulator, he knows how to titillate men, entertaining them with what they wouldn’t dare seek out themselves, allowing them to play out their darker desires and using their self-disgust against them afterwards.

The hardcore Death Eaters and their hangers on truly believe in - cleansing - our world of Muggleborns, others might still believe in blood purity, but their overall aim is gaining power, manipulating fears of the growing number of Muggleborns and half-bloods to create a common enemy and gain support’.

Hermione pondered Sirius’ words. ‘I suppose for any Ministry officials spotted at Malfoy’s parties, they can use his methods of entertainment to convince themselves he’s not a hardcore blood purist?’

‘Yeah. I think so. There’s some very twisted views out there - my best mate is a Pureblood, married to an amazing Muggleborn girl. For some of the Slytherins in our year, it would have been sort of allowed if he was - er - _shagging_ her in secret, as it would have been completely unacceptable to do that with Pureblood girls - but they’re disgusted that he married her as it _dilutes the bloodline_. No matter that she’s the most brilliant witch I’ve ever met and the Pureblood families are so inbred you have to check how close they are to you on the family tree before proposing.’

‘So what would your family do if you chose to do the same?’

He scoffed. ‘Luckily my parents disowned me when I was sixteen, so I can escape their horror of them ever knowing about my tastes, and I’m not - the _marrying_ kind.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I can continue to horrify them with my Muggle wardrobe if they see me in the Alley, though. I want one of those white suits that dancer wears next-you know him? On the Muggle film posters?’ He posed, and Hermione laughed.

They stood rather awkwardly together after the serious turn the conversation had taken, and to clear the air Hermione began rummaging through the racks again.

‘So what kind of thing should I wear? Hotpants?’

‘No. You need something sexy enough to attract their attention but sophisticated too. He pulled out a soft gold slip dress with a high split and draped cowl neck. ‘Try this on’.

Hermione ducked into the little cubicle to the side which was covered by a heavy velvet curtain, stripping off her robe and tugging on the dress. She spun in the mirror. He’d actually chosen quite well, the colour complimented her skin tone and the fabric clung to her curves, the cowl neck showing a hint of cleavage and the thigh-high split making it rather sexy.

She jumped as Sirius’ tousled head popped through the curtain and she smacked him sharply on the forehead. 

‘Bloody _hell_ , witch, I have my eyes closed! You’re taking ages and it’s giving me the creeps standing out here on my own, the mannequins are Charmed to move and they keep changing _positions_. Are you decent?’

‘Yes, prat! You can look’.

Sirius opened his eyes and widened them in appreciation. He handed over a pair of strappy heeled shoes and she slipped them on, using her wand to shrink them to her size. Sirius grinned proudly, his smile faltering somewhat as he glanced up to the top of her head.

‘Er, your hair-‘

She scowled. ‘I’ll have you know _plenty_ of men have been _more_ than happy with my hair, Black. It’ll probably be very fashionable in a couple of years’.

He grimaced. ‘Look, can I just...?’

He twisted her hair and held it to the back of her neck in a loose bun, soft curls springing out around the nape of her neck.

‘There!’ He said, triumphantly. ‘Tidier, but it’s got a bit of a - erm - _just got out of bed_ feel to it, like you just threw it up after...’

She wanted to protest but he was actually rather good at this. The style suited her and was a nice contrast to the slinky dress.

‘Alright, Black, ten points to Gryffindor’.

He smirked smugly, then frowned at her. 

’I better get this off then we can get out of here’, she said, quickly. 

He ducked back through the curtain, brow still furrowed. Hermione stripped, shoving the dress through the drapes at Sirius so he could find someone to pay, hoping it would distract him from asking awkward questions.

Through the heavy velvet she heard the muffled ‘ _ding_ ’ of an old-fashioned bell, the click of heeled footsteps and mumbled conversation. Sirius was turning away from the counter as she left the dressing room, stuffing something under his cloak. He held out a wrapped package to her, and nodded his thanks at the stunningly beautiful blonde who stood behind the counter, her hair a long, silvery curtain, about as far as you could get from Hermione’s mop of thick, dark curls. She reminded Hermione very much of Bill Weasley’s wife, Fleur, however she was dressed in a tight leather outfit, covered in buckles and straps, that the Frenchwoman would never have dared leave the house in. The woman raised a blonde eyebrow at Hermione as the two left the dim, thickly scented, oppressive interior of the store.

* * *

Hermione’s head cleared as they stepped out into the crisp November air. ‘I think she was part- _Veela_ , that woman’.

‘Was she? I didn’t notice. She had pretty hair, but it reminded me too much of Malfoy, the ponce. He’s got long blonde hair like that. I hope he’s not got any _Veela_ in him! Come on, I need some scran. I’m starving after being in that place, the whole shop smelt of chocolate and Firewhisky’.

Hermione wondered whether to let on about the _Amortentia_ , but decided it was something she’d keep to herself, just now.

It was getting darker in the early evening and the alley was starting to fill up with unsavoury looking figures, skulking in the shadows. Hermione had her head down, trying not to trip on the rough cobbles as she followed Sirius, jostled by hooded bodies hurrying past. As they neared the wrought-iron archway that would lead them back to the welcoming warm lights of Diagon, Hermione felt a hand grasp her elbow, tugging her around.

She found herself facing an ancient, wizenend looking witch, in a grubby, moth-eaten cloak. She had beady, black, sharp little eyes surrounded by deep wrinkles. Hermione tried to pull herself away but the woman’s grip was surprisingly strong, despite her bony, clawed fingers and dirty, broken nails. She dug her hand into Hermione’s arm, peering suspiciously into her face.

She breathed -stale, gin-scented - into Hermione’s face.

‘You’re not meant to _be_ here, girl. Here, with the restless dead.’

Hermione felt herself being yanked backwards by a strong hand, for once welcoming the waft of musky cologne. 

‘Let her go, you daft old bat,’ hissed Sirius.

The witch jerked her head towards him, gazing at him with a wicked twinkle in her black eyes. She grinned ferally, showing off broken and missing teeth and letting out another waft of foul breath as she muttered,

‘Perhaps she’s here to help you _move on_ , lad’.

Sirius stared at her, before giving himself a visible shake, shoving his hand in his pocket and bringing out a handful of Sickles. He thrust out his palm toward the crone, who peered at the coins greedily.

‘I presume this is what you’re really after. Let her go. Don’t just spend it all on drink, buy yourself a decent meal.’

The old witch glanced between the two of them before conceding, picking several coins out of his hand and examining them before closing his fist around the remaining change. She kept hold of Hermione’s arm, pointing a clawed finger in Sirius face.

‘I’m a Seer, not a beggar, _boy_. But I thank you for the fee’. She let go of Hermione’s arm and wandered back into the dark crowds, weaving drunkenly.

Sirius snorted. ‘Absolute charlatan. Seer, _my arse_. Load of nonsense. Come on, Granger.’

He hooked his arm around her shoulders, leading her out into the warm lamplight and bustle of Diagon Alley.

* * *

Sirius dropped her off near the Leaky, promising to meet her after his morning briefing with Moody to work on their plans.

Hermione was tired, her head beginning to pound again. She shuffled wearily up the creaking wooden stairs to her rented room, deciding to ditch her bags and get something to eat before falling into bed. She was too exhausted to start trying to figure out what on Earth was happening to her, but, hopefully a hot meal in her belly would help.

She trooped back downstairs. The bar was busy and warm compared to earlier that day, with the fire blazing merrily. She managed to snag the last free table after ordering a beef stew and glass of red wine and paying with one of the coins Moody had given her.

Her dinner arrived quickly and she perked up at the smell of rich stew and fresh-baked bread. She ate quickly before sitting back with a pleasantly full stomach, sipping on her wine.

‘Excuse me, Miss?’

She looked up from her drink. Oh, she’d _definitely_ lost her mind. What was a Viking god doing in the Leaky Cauldron holding a Firewhisky?

She put down her wineglass carefully and rubbed her eyes.

‘Miss? Sorry to ask, but can I sit with you while I finished my drink? I’m waiting on someone but I’m not sure he’s going to show up?’. 

She nodded and he sat, shaking thick, blond hair out of bright blue eyes. The wooden stool creaked under his size. He was _massive_.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, sipping their drinks as she tried her best not to stare. He had a large, interesting badge embroidered on the front of his robes, what looked like the outline of a bat. He noticed her eyeing it and leant his arms on the table, eyes twinkling at her.

‘Are you about to chasten or congratulate me for my woeful performance against the Arrows yesterday? I hope it’s chasten, as it would wound me deeply to ask an Arrows fan if I could buy her a drink, even such a pretty one.’

‘Oh, er- sorry, I’ve not really been following Quidditch lately, I’m afraid.’

‘If you’re not waiting for anyone to join you, perhaps you’d join me in another drink and I can try and entertain you with the unedifying tale of how I got knocked out by my own team-mate yesterday?’ he asked, flirtatiously.

Hermione’s tired brain debated for a moment. The voice of reason suggested it was probably a bad idea. The devilish side, which sounded uncannily like Ginny Weasley, argued, if this was all a hallucination after all, perhaps this was where it was about to get _interesting_. She’d never had six-foot-six of Nordic God offer to buy her drinks in real life after all. _Fuck it_.

‘Alright, thank you’, she smiled.

He grinned down at her, showing off perfect white teeth, before pushing himself up and jostling his way through the crowds toward the bar. He stood a full head above anyone else, with broad shoulders under his robes, and made his way easily through the throng. She’d always rather fancied Quidditch players - ogling them was the only thing that made the game worth watching, in Hermione’s opinion, although she kept that to herself.

Her admirer turned away from the bar, a bottle of wine and two goblets in his large hands. As he strode back toward her table, grinning at her, a greying, distinguished looking man stepped up and spoke to him. Hermione was too far away to hear the muffled conversation, but from the rather disappointed look on the younger mans’ face, she presumed it was his delayed companion.

Her blond gestured toward her, and the older man nodded, peering at the pocketwatch attached to his robes, pointedly. Thor-the-Viking-God pushed his way back toward her table, placing the bottle and goblets down in front of her.

‘I’m sorry, but I have to head off. My father’s set up this meeting with his business associate, about a job when I finally decide I’ve been hit by my last bludger. Perhaps this could be postponed, if you’re here again?’

He picked her hand up off the table and kissed the back of her knuckles, looking up into her eyes as he did so. ‘My apologies, and I do hope I see you in here again’.

Hermione smiled weakly and he turned to leave with his companion, waving at her when he got to the door. He pointed at his chest and mouthed,

‘Finn!’

 _Finn_.


	6. A Certain Curiosity

Hermione dragged herself up the creaky stairs to bed, managing to Transfigure a teaspoon into a toothbrush to clean her teeth before stripping to her knickers and slipping under the crisp, cool sheets. She'd need to pick up some pyjamas tomorrow, she thought, yawning up at the low eaves. _If_ she was still here.

Exhausted, she slept soundly for hours. Her dreams were vague, of standing in a dark room, shouting, hooded figures, flashes of spell fire, of grasping roughly-hewn stone beneath her fingertips. Of Harry, pleading. She woke, disorientated, with sweat cooling on her skin, under the dark wooden beams of the Leaky Cauldron's attic bedroom. She scowled up at the ceiling and tugged the sheet back over her head.

A couple of hours later, Hermione realised she wasn't going to get anywhere further lying in her bed, moping. She cleaned her teeth and shuffled into the shower, sitting on the tiled floor and letting the warm water run over her head. Perhaps now she'd escaped from the watchful eye of Moody and baby-Sirius, she'd be able to do a bit of investigating of her own. Her usual solution to any quandary - the Hogwarts' Library, was going to be difficult to get to unless she could think up a plausible reason to visit. She briefly contemplated contacting Professor Dumbledore with her story - if he was still Headmaster here - if anyone might have any knowledge about whatever had happened to her it would be him - but the experiences of his lies and manipulations in her own time made her leery of placing her trust in him immediately. The Dumbledore of 1979, if this was the same one, was about to sacrifice Harry's parents in hope of defeating Voldemort and condemn Severus Snape to eighteen miserable years as a spy, with an Unbreakable Vow, after all.

During her school years, teacher's pet Hermione had gradually realised that _telling a teacher_ wasn't always the best course of action. When four out of six of your _Defence_ Against the Dark Arts Professors had turned out to be allied with the so called _Dark Lord_ Voldemort himself, one had been a charlatan and one a cardigan-wearing werewolf, it was only natural to be wary.

At her slightly uncharitable thought about Remus, who'd been a perfectly well-mannered werewolf and rather a good teacher, she wondered if she would see him here, too. She vaguely knew there had been a falling out between Remus and Sirius, before Harry's parents had been killed, due to their mistrust of each other. Their relationship, once Sirius had been freed, when she'd spent time with them at Grimmauld, had been close, but with a sense of strained awkwardness between them that her fifteen-year old self had struggled to understand.

Sirius - both the younger version and the older man she'd known - had been a very tactile person, often ruffling her hair, slinging an arm around Harry or Ron’s shoulders or play-fighting the twins, but he _never_ touched Remus, despite their years of friendship. Instead, the two skirted around each other, always in each other's line of sight, but never sitting beside each other. The only time she'd ever seen them embrace had been in the Shrieking Shack, in her third year.

Hermione hadn't thought too much of it, back then, with the shock of loosing Sirius at the Department of Mysteries and Remus' hasty marriage to Nymphadora Tonks, after he'd gotten her pregnant - but when she was older she'd wondered about their relationship. Was the tension due to years of perceived betrayal, or something else?

With these thoughts Hermione towelled herself off, drying her hair with her wand. She pulled out one of her new robes, in a pretty rust-red colour that warmed her skin, and the boots she'd nicked the previous day. She'd get some breakfast, then start figuring out her next steps.

* * *

Her plans came to naught as she pushed open the door to the bar and saw Sirius himself, tucking into a fried breakfast with the _Daily Prophet_ spread out in front of him. He grinned up at her when she approached and waved at her to sit.

'Sleep well, love? Do you want a sausage?'

She shook her head and he shrugged, dipping it into a smear of sauce on his plate.

'Is that _brown sauce_ on your breakfast?'

He chewed and swallowed, before nodding enthusiastically. 'Bloody _love_ this stuff. My mate's wife made me try it and now I have it on _everything_. I had it on my Sunday roast last week. Amazing stuff the Muggles come up with, don't they?'

She grimaced and asked the hovering waitress for some tea and toast.

Sirius finished his breakfast while she sipped at her tea, patting his full stomach. He was dressed in black Wizarding robes today, instead of his leather jacket, wearing them over a fitted waistcoat and trousers in a smart, dark grey tartan.

'You look snazzy today, Black. Hot date?'

He smirked, brushing imaginary lint off his shoulders.

'Up in front of the boss, today, weren't we?'

'So, did he go for your cunning plan to pimp me out to some Death Eater hangers-on?'

'He said it was ' _so fucking idiotic that it might actually work_ '. Sirius paused. 'I think that's the nicest thing he's ever said to me'.

Hermione groaned. 'We're going ahead with it, then?'.

Sirius smiled, wickedly.

'How am I even going to get into a Malfoy party?'

His smile widened.

'I'm taking you to meet someone who can help us this morning.'

He tossed a handful of coins on the table and blew a kiss at the barmaid.

‘Come on, pet, time to go!’

He ushered her out of the Leaky towards the dingy back alley next to it.

'I don't know where we're going, are you going to have to Side - Along Apparate me again? I _hate_ that.

Sirius took her arm, whispering conspiratorially in her ear. 'It's _such_ a lovely day, and we've got plenty of time to get there, so I thought -

They rounded the corner and saw -

'Oh, _absolutely not_! I am not getting on that death-trap! You haven't even got any _helmets_!'

Sirius stroked the massive, shiny black motorbike, lovingly.

'It's perfectly safe, I did all the repairs and Charmed it myself! It _flies_!' he announced, triumphantly. 

Hermione threw her hands up in the air in disgust. 'That makes it even _worse_! There is _no bloody way_ you're going to persuade me to get on that thing. I don't like motorbikes, I _hate_ flying, and I don't trust _you_!'

* * *

Fifteen minutes of arguing later, Hermione found herself astride the death-trap in question, eyes screwed shut, face pressed firmly between Sirius shoulder blades and her hands around his slim waist in a death grip. The absolute _fucking menace_ that was Sirius Black was whooping and laughing as they sped through the streets, thankfully still on solid ground. The only thing that cheered Hermione was realising that, if she was sick, it would be all over Sirius' smart black robes, and that was no more than he deserved.

Hermione's mumbled prayers to Jesus, Merlin and Circe seemed to have worked as Sirius pulled to a stop after around twenty minutes. She peeled herself from his back and climbed off with shaking legs. Sirius grinned, manically.

' _Unbelievable_ , eh?'. He ran a hand through his windswept hair. 'Your hair looks like a dandelion clock, its all poofy.'

Hermione glowered at him, staggering to lean against the railings of the pretty, tree-lined garden in front of them. Sirius was petting the motorbike, whispering something to it lovingly.

'You have a very _unhealthy_ relationship with that thing, Black.’

'She's gorgeous though, isn't she?' he muttered, fondly.

'Come on, Black, I presume you've brought me here for a reason? Other than to show off that thing?’

He straightened, and Hermione took a look around the elegant Georgian townhouses lining either side of the street, stone steps, decorated with potted plants, leading up to each freshly painted front door. The houses looked well cared for, it was clearly an exclusive area.

'Where are we? she asked, curiously.

'Chelsea'.

She frowned. 'Do many wizards live around here?' As she spoke, she remembered the Black townhouse had been hidden in Islington, perhaps the home they were here to visit was similarly disguised.

'We aren't here to see a _wizard_ ', he replied, peering at the brass numbers attached to the doors. 'This is it, number 40.'

He led the way up stone steps and rapped the knocker on the dark green front door. There was a small crest engraved on the brass door knocker, with three ravens at the bottom.

Sirius stepped back sharply as the door opened. A tall, patrician-looking man, with wavy, iron grey hair and a waxed mustache stood before them, one elegant eyebrow raised.

‘Yes?’

'Hello, Uncle Marius', said Sirius.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: not for profit, just for fun.  
> Anything you recognise does not belong to me, unfortunately.


	7. Traditions Of The Fathers

Hermione couldn't remember seeing a Marius on the Black family tree at Grimmauld Place, despite studying it in some detail during the long weeks they'd hidden there, while on the run from Voldemort several years ago. There had been rather a lot of holes in it, however. 

'Uncle Marius' looked down at them and sighed. 'Come in, then, don't dally on the doorstep.'

He led them into a light, airy entrance hall, with a tiled floor, the walls painted crisp white and hung with rather modern looking artwork. Their host turned to Sirius and snapped, 'One of Walburga's brats, I presume? Which are you, then, the blood-traitor or the Death Eater?'

'Sirius'.

Marius raised a brow and waited.

'Er, the first one. I work for the Aurory'.

Marius curled his lip, disdainfully. 'I see. And is this a social visit or an official one?'

'Both'.

Marius turned to Hermione, who was examining the art on the walls.

'Oh, I'm Hermione. No relation. Hermione Granger. Is this a David Hockney?!’

The corner of his mouth twitched. 'I suppose you'll be wanting tea. We'll take it in my study. Through the door on the left, there. Then you can tell me why our erstwhile Ministry is interested in a harmless old Squib like me.'

'Harmless, my left nut,' muttered Sirius, as his uncle strode away along the tiled hallway, polished shoes clicking. He opened the door they'd been directed to and stepped back to let Hermione through.

The study was decorated in a sleek, masculine fashion, the walls lined with bookshelves, with a large, roll-top desk at the far side, empty apart from a green-shaded lamp and an inkwell . A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, taking the chill off the room.

Sirius and Hermione took a seat in the leather armchairs in front of the desk and tried not to fidget as Marius re-appeared with a silver tea-tray, setting it down on the desk and taking a seat behind it.

'Shall I be Mother?’ asked Hermione, brightly.

The three sipped at their tea and Hermione glanced around the room. Her attention was caught by an unmoving, black and white photograph, of a much younger looking Marius, with short, neatly parted hair, standing next to a squat man in a homburg hat holding a cigar. She started. 'Is _that_ -?'

Marius set down his cup. 'How much has my great-nephew told you about me, Miss Granger?'

Sirius interrupted. ‘Er-to be honest, I'm not sure of the full story myself, I'm afraid, Sir'.

He shrugged, elegantly. 'No matter. As you may have noticed, Miss Granger, I am a Squib. Not very common, in our family. When I neared eleven and it was clear I was unlikely to show any sign of magical talent, my father had to look at - an _alternative solution_ for me.'

He took a sip of his tea. 'Certain families have less...tasteful ways of dealing with unwanted Squibs in their line. They are seen as useless, disregarded and hidden away on their family estates, if they don't suffer from an - _unfortunate accident,_ that is _._ Thankfully, my Mother's family understood how we could prove useful to our families.

Over the course of history some Pureblood families have discreetly sent their Squib offspring into the Muggle world to be educated and find their way into influential positions in politics and business. We are their eyes and ears in the Muggle world, Miss Granger, as well as having the knowledge and contacts to handle business interests they would find distasteful or be unable to handle discreetly. Land purchases and what have you.'

'Is that what happened to you, Mr Black?'

He smirked, and suddenly she realised why he looked so familiar. He very much resembled the painting of Phineas Nigellus Black, the smug bastard and ex-Hogwarts Headmaster she'd lugged around for nearly a year after she'd stolen the copy of his portrait from Grimmauld.

'Correct, Miss Granger', he drawled. 'Marius Black, son of Cygnus, disappeared from the Wizarding world at the age of eleven. Marcus Black, son of Cyril, was sent, with false papers, to boarding school at Eton and then university at Oxford. I lived with a Squib aunt of my mothers, with a regular stipend from my father, until I was old enough to make my way in the world. I trained as a solicitor, and handle land and property purchase, investments and the like, for both Muggles and magical families, who trust me to be discreet if I need to seek outside expertise.

I dabble in politics, from time to time,' he said, smugly, gesturing at the photograph on his mantle, 'and observe the goings - on there in order to feed back anything relevant to...interested parties.'

Hermione was shocked by his story. She'd never really thought about what happened to Squibs, and that made her feel a little ashamed. The only one she'd ever interacted with was Argus Filch, at Hogwarts, and she'd never really endeared herself to him.

She recalled that Terry Boot, a peer of hers from Hogwarts, was studying the Muggle field of genetics, with a theory that magic was a recessive gene. If he was correct, it likely meant both of Hermione's parents had Squib ancestors, somewhere in their line. Marius' parents solution made sense, but the hypocrisy turned her stomach a little, realising that blood purists were happy to profit from, and spy on, the Muggle world they so despised.

Marius steepled his hands under his chin. 'Now I have given you my autobiography, perhaps it's time for you to tell me what you want from me?'

Sirius cut to the chase. 'What's your stance on the Death Eaters, Uncle Marius?'

Marius snorted. 'Subtlety is not your strong point, is it? I’d heard you were a Gryffindor. Your poor mother must have been beside herself.'

Sirius looked mutinous. 'We've both been blasted off the family tree. Answer the question, please.'

Marius' eyes were cold. 'I've always found it interesting that intelligent, useful men like myself are barred from carrying on the family name while we encourage mad bitches like Walburga to breed. Your father was easier to deal with, boy.'

The air was tense as the two men watched each other. Eventually, Marius shrugged. 'I presume, depending on my answer to your question, you have some work for me'.

He leaned forward. 'Disowned or not, you're still a Black, and if Walburga's no influence over you, it's better for me. If things work out in your favour and you gain control of the Black estates, I want your assurances you'll continue to employ me as your agent, before our discussion goes any further.'

'To your profit, I assume?' challenged Sirius.

'I _am_ a businessman,' Marius drawled. 'I may not be good at making magic, but I am _exceptionally_ good at making money. I've amassed quite a fortune of my own, already, nephew, and as yet have no heir of my own. If I'm to declare my views on your Wizarding conflict, I need some reassurances.' 

Sirius leant forward. ‘It makes no difference to me. I currently have nothing to my name, except a rather beautiful motorbike and a collection of Muggle LP's.'

Marius smiled, sharklike. 'Things change. Very well. I feel this conversation will require something stronger than tea. Excuse me, for a moment.' He pushed himself up from his chair with the smooth ease of a much younger man and strode from the room.

Sirius looked at Hermione, rattled. 'I've never met anyone so _utterly_ Slytherin, and he didn’t even _go_ to Hogwarts,’ he whispered, shuddering.

Marius returned with a bottle of expensive Muggle brandy and three crystal balloon glasses. Sirius and Hermione watched him take a sip before sampling their own. He turned to Sirius. 

‘I have many clients in your world, some of whom would surprise you. There are not many people who can provide the service for them that I do. I work for them, sometimes I socialise with them.’ He took a second, larger sip. ‘However, these extremists - those who follow your so-called Dark Lord - threaten the stability we have worked for centuries to uphold. He is a threat to my very existence.’

‘I understand those who fear the growing influence of Mudbloods in Wizarding society-’

Hermione’s spine stiffened,

‘But his way is not the answer. If he gains control, it will lead to open war. The Muggles aren’t stupid, I’ve seen them fight their wars. They may not have magic, but they are far from powerless. Maintaining the status quo is the best thing we can do. Assimilate the Mudbloods into our society, make sure they don’t want to leave it. Allow men like myself to bridge the gap, knowing my loyalties will always be to the world I was born in, unless it persecutes me.’

Sirius’ mouth twisted, and he swigged back a slug of brandy. Hermione could tell he was thinking, furiously. He spoke slowly-

‘We may not have the same motivations, but I agree the Death Eaters must not be allowed to gain any more ground. The Aurory, and several other - organisations - are working to bring him down, but he has spies, allies, planted everywhere. The Ministry is riddled with corruption.’

He leant forward. ‘This is where you come in, Uncle Marius. We need someone to get us in, see who is interacting with them.’ ‘Do you ever socialise with Lucius Malfoy? I would recommend you tell the truth, as I already know the answer.’ 

Marius’ face was stony. ‘Why do you ask, nephew, if you know, already? You’re aware I worked for his father, Abraxas, for many years, I take it? We were friends, of a sort, as young boys.’

Sirius nodded. ‘How close are you to his son? Could you gain an invite to one of his gatherings?’

Marius looked down, swirling the brandy in his glass. ‘You wish me to spy for you, boy?’

‘No,’ said Sirius, looking him in the eye. ‘I’m not such a fool that I’d trust you enough for that. I just want you to get yourself an invite to a party.’ 

He tipped the glass to his mouth and drained it, before placing the balloon on the desk. ‘Oh, and you’ll be bringing a guest.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: not for profit, just for fun, anything you recognise does not belong to me-unfortunately


	8. Stumbling Blocks

After escaping from the tense atmosphere of Uncle Marius’ Chelsea townhouse, Sirius suggested a walk to clear their heads before he returned Hermione to Diagon Alley. He transfigured their robes into a style more like Muggle coats, before they strolled through Chelsea and onto the Kings Road. Sirius leant her some Muggle money, ignoring her protests, and browsed in a record shop while she purchased a cheap nightdress, dressing gown and underwear. The robe was a buttoned monstrosity, in a horrid shade of pink, but it was within budget.

When it got chilly, they popped into a cosy looking pub and Sirius discreetly cast a _muffliato_ charm to prevent them being overheard.

“So, where did you come up with the idea to involve _Uncle Marius_ in the plans? I don’t think I’d trust him as far as I could throw him.”

Sirius scratched the table between them, looking rather sheepish.

“Well, after I left you yesterday I met with a group of - er - _friends_ \- and it was brought to my attention our original plans might have been a little - careless of your safety. That you risked ending up in a situation where you might not be able to defend yourself from being - erm-”

“Sexually harrassed?” she finished for him, helpfully.

Sirius tilted his head on one side, quizzically.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Hit on. Felt up. What have you.”

Sirius sighed.

“Yeah. And obviously we wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, but it would have been difficult maintaining your cover if you had to stop someone getting too _handsy_ , seeing as that’s what you’d supposedly, erm, be there for. A friend of mine suggested we send you in with a companion, someone that would be well known enough to be invited but not so well they’d ask too many questions. That’s when we started looking into more creative suggestions. Although Marius tried to slither his way out of telling us where his loyalties lie, we know he doesn’t sympathise with the real fanatics, but he discreetly handles business for a lot of the old families. Some of it above board, a lot of it...not. He’d be tolerated at these kind of gatherings but he’d be on the edges, kept away from the inner circle, giving the perfect opportunity to observe from the shadows.”

His mouth quirked.

“No-one would ever take a wife to these kind of gatherings but you wouldn’t be the only rich man’s _mistress_ there, and they’ll likely be indiscreet about what they say in front of you, especially if they think you’re just a bit of fluff. Make sure you keep their drinks topped up, too.”

Hermione huffed, but she couldn’t deny the plan made sense.

“So let’s go over what you want me to achieve when I’m there. Who and what am I looking for, exactly?”

Sirius glanced over his shoulder and leaned forward, muttering quietly despite the Charm.

“We want to know who’s there, first and foremost. Names, job roles, anything. The more people we can place there the better - we’ll have a much better idea which individuals from the Ministry have been compromised and can no longer be trusted. Who’s there recruiting. You’re not to put yourself in any danger, but anything you see or hear that’s connected with Death Eater activity, get as much information as you can. Any damning comments that prove people’s stance.”

He slid his arm across the table and gripped her hand in his warm, dry palm.

“I know Moody’s a suspicious bastard but you’re not to put yourself at risk to prove yourself to him, alright? You’re there to observe and if you can maintain your cover it might give us another chance to do the same thing again.”

He sat back and shook his head, smiling ruefully.

“Merlin, If only my mates could hear me telling someone not to be _reckless_.”

Hermione grinned. Recklessness had been a part of her life since befriending this mans’ godson at the age of twelve. Her smile faltered, a little. She missed her boys. If this really was 1979, Ron wouldn’t be born for another few months - and Harry, fuck, had Harry been conceived? She began the months backward from July, surreptitiously.

“You ok, love? I know it’s a lot for your first mission and it probably wasn’t what you’d be expecting to be doing as a liaison officer.”

“Oh, it’s alright, I can do it. So, you mentioned your mates? Are you close? What are they like?”

He gave her another of his shrewd, narrow-eyed glances and she smiled, guilelessly.

“There’s four of us. Well, five, I should probably say now my best mate’s married, she’d hex me if I missed her out. We’ve been friends since first year in Hogwarts, in Gryffindor, and we were Minerva McGonagall’s absolute worst _nightmare_. What year were you in, again? We were kind of...noticeable.”

He leant back, tipping back in his chair, arms laced behind his head. As he did so, he caught sight of something behind Hermione.

“Shit! Look at the time, I was meant to be back at the office. Are you okay Apparating back to the Alley? I’ll have to come back for the bike later.”

He threw his coat over his shoulders.

“We will carry on with this conversation though, Granger. I find myself very curious about you.”

He strode away, hem of his transfigured coat flapping.

Wonderful. All she needed was a plausible story, that wouldn’t see her ending up in Azkaban or a secure ward at St Mungo’s. She raised her head and waved at the barman for another drink.

* * *

By the time Hermione made it back to the Leaky she was tired and frustrated, no further forward in working out a story to lower Sirius’ suspicions - until she’d figured out where she really was, and how she’d got there. Instead of Apparating, she’d walked back through London and the November evening had drawn in quickly, dark and drizzly. She shivered, wrapping her cloak tightly around her and hurried along the Alley, already regretting her decision to visit Flourish and Blotts, in the hope she’d find something to help her understand what had happened to her. She strode quickly toward its welcoming, warm lights until something hit her like a punch in the centre of her back and she fell, sprawled across the wet cobbles.

She came to, turned onto her back, eyes blurred and her head throbbing. She scrabbled for her wand, they’d been attacked, in the Department of Mysteries, she needed to get _up_ , get to Harry, she’d -oh, fuck, she’d _fallen_ , she’d been hit and she thought she’d fallen through the _arch_ just like -

She blinked, rapidly. Why did it feel like rain on her -

Sharp wicked black eyes close to her own - rambled mutterings -

“I told you, you weren’t meant to be _here_. They’re here for redemption, because their -

“ _Oi_!”

\- sins, their _last_ regrets were too strong to stop them finding their rest. They’re here for a reason. This isn’t _your_ _time_ \- you’re not meant to be here to help them-

“Oi, get _off_ her.”

Hermione’s vision cleared suddenly as the black eyes disappeared in the sounds of a scuffle, and were replaced by bright blue ones, surrounded by thick, golden lashes.

“Come on, up you get, princess.”

Strong arms scooped her up against a broad chest.

“It’s alright, I can walk,” she protested, stubbornly, She felt a rumbling chuckle.

“I’m sure you can, love, but humour me this once, eh? It’s not often I get to play the knight in shining armour. Let’s get you back to the Leaky, eh? If you’re really feeling alright we can have that drink I promised you.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “Finn?”

“The very same. I was hoping I’d bump into you tonight, but I admit this wasn’t how I wanted the night to start. He smirked down at her. End, perhaps.”

He set her to her feet in the lamplight spilling from the panelled windows of the pub, brushing a damp curl from her face and sucking in a breath.

“You staying here, are you, princess?”

She nodded and winced, a her hand to her head. How had she managed to get herself knocked out _twice_ in two days?

He peered at her forehead.

“I’m no expert but I’ve had to heal enough bumps and bruises from Bludgers in my time. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Finn the Viking helped her upstairs to her room, waving his wand to light the lamps and fire before sitting her on the bed and tilting her chin up to the light. He cast a healing spell to knit the skin together and sighed.

“You need some bruise paste on that or you’ll have a hell of a shiner. The pickpockets are getting so brazen. Scum out of Knockturn. Did they get anything? Your money? Wand?”

She felt in her pocket. “No, I have everything. I’m not sure that’s what she - I mean, thanks. For helping me.”

He grinned, standing. “I’d have done it for anyone but I’m glad I got to impress you. I’m going down to see if the landlady has any bruise paste or dittany.”

He paused at the door.

“You should be okay to jump in the shower to get yourself clean and warm. unless you want me to stick around for that, scrub your back?” he asked, waggling thick blond eyebrows.

She shooed him out of the room, smirking, before shuffling into the bathroom. She examined the cut in the stark bathroom light. He’d done well, the cut had sealed neatly, but a dark bruise was already blooming on her temple. She stripped and washed carefully, before pulling on her new nightdress and dressing gown. She hadn’t expected anyone to see it, concerned mainly with the price and finding something thick enough to keep her cosy in the draughty attic room and it was, perhaps, the most ugly garment she’d ever purchased, the sickly shade of pink reminding her uncomfortably of her fifth-year nemesis, Dolores Umbridge.

There was a knock at the door before she had chance to take it off again.

“Come in!”

It opened to show Finn, who had to duck to get his tall frame under the lintel. He levitated a tray behind him and landed it carefully on the bedside table.

“Dinner. You look tired, princess.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small glass jar.

“Sit down and look up.”

He sat on the bed beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. He unscrewed the tiny lid and dabbed a thick finger into the paste, before smearing it delicately on her forehead. She tried to suppress a yawn, soothed by the warmth coming off him.

“The longer we delay this drink the keener I am to do it, love. Bed for you, tonight, though,” he said, eyes crinkling.

He stood and looked down at her, eyes warm.

I have to go to a thing, tomorrow, with my father, but I’ll be back here, on Saturday, if you are?”

Hermione smiled up at him, sleepily. He dimmed the lights with his wand before sliding a large, warm hand carefully through her drying curls to cup the back of her head. She actually _shivered_ as he bent toward her and whispered,

“You’re so pretty, love, but that has to be the most _horrible_ dressing gown I’ve ever seen.” He smirked at her frown, before pressing his mouth, softly, onto hers.


	9. How Great The Evils Are

* * *

Sirius knocked on the door of Hermione's rented room at 7 o'clock the following evening, for a final briefing, as arranged, before they Apparated to Marius'. He looked her over appreciatively as she scowled up at him.

"You scrub up alright, don't you, pet! What's the matter? Stage fright?"

She stamped her foot lightly on the floor in frustration.

"I can't do my hair the way you did the other day and it looks a fright," she huffed, folding her arms across her chest.

He laughed and moved behind her, angling her gently toward the mirror. He combed her curls through his fingers and began pinning them loosely at the nape of her neck.

" _How_ are you so good at this?" she sniffed.

He smirked at her in the mirror, gesturing at his own artfully tousled mop of black curls.

"It takes work to make it look like I woke up like this, love. Don't tell anyone, though." His smile widened. "If you think yours is bad, you should see my best mate. Hair sticks out all over the place no matter what he does to it. He used to ruffle it up thinking it made him look cool until Lil - his missus -told him it made him look like a prick. He was so desperate to look tidy on his wedding day he nearly cast a shaving charm on it, wanting to look nice for the pictures."

Hermione looked down at her feet, thinking about her own messy-haired best friend. Would she make it back to tell him that story?

When she glanced back up Sirius's face looked a little concerned, so she smiled wryly at his reflection.

"Sorry, I sympathise with your friend. The first time I went to a grown-up party I had to use a whole bottle of Sleekeazy's to tame my frizz."

Sirius snorted. "That stuff was _invented_ for Potter hair and even then it doesn't help Jamie." He patted her tidied curls. "Your hair is more like the Blacks. We've all got hair like this, curly and thick. Although, my cousin's husband has _definitely_ taught her some Dark Malfoy magic to use on hers, its almost straight now, and just as blonde as his own." He gave an exaggerated shudder "Creepy, eh? Must be like shagging his own sister. At least the Blacks stop at their cousins."

Hermione laughed and he slung an arm round her as he stood by her side facing the mirror.

"That's better, love. Look, don't we make a pretty pair? Should we sack this off and go dancing instead? You're wasted on old Uncle Marius."

"Moody would go _mental."_

He sighed, dramatically. "You're far too sensible, Granger."

Hermione nudged him. "You're not dressed for it either, couldn't have you showing me up. Haven't got your new suit yet, have you. Come on, we better not keep my escort waiting."

Sirius slipped his other arm around her waist and Apparated them both away, landing carefully in the small gated park in the centre of Marius' Chelsea crescent.

Marius greeted them at his front door, bowing very properly to Hermione and pressing a lingering kiss to her knuckles.

"You look absolutely enchanting, Miss Granger."

He gestured her inside. "We've a few minutes before we leave. Time for a glass of Champagne first, if you'd care to join me? We've had a private Portkey sent for us by our host."

_“Illegal_ private Portkey,” muttered Sirius, behind her.

The Portkey in question, unlike the tatty bits of rubbish Hermione had used previously, was an engraved silver disc, a monogrammed 'M' in the centre. She inspected it cautiously, sipping from her glass as the two men chatted together with frosty politeness. It looked familiar, as if she'd seen it before, somewhere. She presumed the monogram was an old Malfoy crest, so perhaps she'd seen it on one of the items from the Manor she'd been studying, after Draco'd dumped hoards of Dark artefacts on her department in an attempt to rid his home of Lucius' influence.

They'd got on surprisingly well as adults, her and Draco. He was studious, clever, and his teasing, snarky sense of humour was quite amusing once he'd stopped directing it at her. He'd grown into his pointy good looks - and although she'd always thought him very like his father, now she'd met the younger Sirius she could see the resemblance in their grey eyes, sharp jawlines and smirking self-confidence.

Marius coughed, politely, glancing at his pocketwatch. "Time for us to leave, Miss Granger."

Sirius bent formally at the waist and kissed her hand, as if to prove he remembered his Pureblood manners, too. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the wink he gave her as his lips grazed her knuckle.

"I'll see you at the meeting-point later, Granger. Remember, no _heroics_. Time to be a Slytherin, not a Gryffindor."

The Portkey began to glow and Marius took her hand, placing his finger directly on the delicately engraved M.

* * *

The pair landed in a darkly elegant room, lit by candles held in twisted silver sconces. The room was filled with small groups, mostly men, wearing heavy, dark formal robes. A small number of women in cocktail dresses were serving glasses of Firewhisky or wine from floating silver drinks trays, others were hovering next to the groups of men, either being leered at, or brushed away with a sneer.

Marius edged closer to a small group of men, lifting a glass of wine from the tray and handing it to her before taking a whisky for himself. He slid a hand over her hip and lent in to her ear. "Remember, you're here to play a part, Miss Granger. You may see or hear things tonight that are unpalatable but you _must keep your temper."_

Hermione sipped her wine and nodded.

"Good girl," Marius smirked, his hand slipping down her silk-covered hip to rest on the curve of her bottom.

Hermione smiled up at him with gritted teeth. "Just remember I'm the one with the wand, Mr Black."

They circulated around the room as it grew busier and warmer and the men in it grew louder and drunker. Hermione ignored the eyes on her chest as she leant into Marius, trying to look disinterested as she listened avidly to the conversations around her. She'd managed to identify some names and faces she recognised as belonging to Voldemort's followers and, rather worryingly, she noticed that they'd separated out from each other in order to infiltrate the small groups of Ministry men and Pureblood sophisticates, cleverly turning the small talk and gossip towards politics.

A sharp looking man, who'd introduced himself as Evan Rosier, and his chestnut-haired companion, had joined their current circle. They'd been discussing some of the shortcomings of the current Hogwarts curriculum, and Rosier had slyly led the gathered men into a discussion of Albus Dumbledore's growing power as Headmaster of Hogwarts as well as Head of the Wizengamot.

The mustachioed gentleman opposite Hermione, who, previous to this discussion, had been alterning between swigs of Firewhisky and ogling the front of her dress, suddenly perked up.

"Quite right, what! I, er, don't hold with any of these _extremists,_ running around in masks and whatnot, but it's never sat right with me that one man has so much influence. I mean, by all means let some of his Mu-er-Muggleborn into Hogwarts, if he wants to waste his time educating them, but he needs to make sure they know their place."

"He's always been a Muggle-lover though, hasn't he?" added a portly man, who'd been addressed by his companions as 'Selwyn'. "He's never understood the risks. If we're going to bring so many of them into Hogwarts there should be proper _regulations_ like there used to be. There's no control over what their Muggle parents do."

Hermione fumed quietly into her wine glass as Rosier smiled politely back at the group.

"I agree with you, gentlemen. I'm sure there is a place for them in our world - on the one hand, it's too risky to leave them, completely uneducated, in the care of their Muggle parents - however, our leadership should know who they are, how many of them there are, so we can watch out for any potential...threats."

"Like a census? A Mud - er - Muggleborn Commission?"

Rosier inclined his head politely. "A valid suggestion, Sir."

Selwyn picked up a fresh glass of Firewhisky, his hand lingering on the young waitress's waist as he steadied himself.

"And of course we need to take care to - er - spread them around a little, I fear there's some departments where they've almost _taken over._ Of course they'll look out for the interests of their own kind..."

The chestnut haired man slapped him firmly on the shoulder. "At last, a man willing to be honest about the current state of the Ministry. I mean, the Ministry is voted in by us to protect Wizardingkind, not Muggles, but the Mudbloods will never understand our ways of doing things, our traditions. He glanced down at his drink, ruefully. "I apologise if my language..."

"No offence taken, young man," interjected walrus-moustache. "You're amongst friends here," he said, tapping the side of his nose.

"I thank you. It just frustrates me that some of our ancient family traditions are seen as Dark magic, classed as dangerous - when we've performed them that way for generations! We allow renegades like Dumbledore to tell us our way of life is wrong while he surrounds himself by Muggleborns, who'll never understand our rites, who seek to control a society in which they'll..."

"Never _truly_ belong!" finished Selwyn.

Hermione was sickened. She'd always thought of Voldemort, of the Death Eaters as evil, insane extremists - she'd never truly understood the insidious way they worked, planting seeds of dissention in the wider populace. To men like this Selwyn, a Muggle-born Commission made _sense,_ without the foresight to see how it could be used in the future. From a census of Muggleborns, it was a small step to tracking and tracing, to limiting their movements, to complete control. Quotas to prove how many Muggleborns existed in the Wizarding world could be used to instil fear at how they outnumbered the dwindling number of Purebloods and - what next? Babies abducted from their Muggle parents at the first sign of accidental magic? Forced marriage? Ministry-sanctioned murder? She took a deep sip of wine to calm herself, hoping it would settle her roiling stomach, and thanked every deity she knew of, Muggle and Wizarding, for Harry Potter.

She looked up from her glass and saw the chestnut-haired man's eyes fixed on her, curiously. A little worried her feelings had shown on her face, she stepped forward and simpered up at him rather vacantly. "I'm sorry, I think this wine's gone a little to my head, excuse me for a moment, Mr-?"

She watched him as he glanced from her exposed thigh down to her ankle, eyes widening at the expanse of skin on show. He brushed a lock of gleaming hair from his forehead.

"Rab. Rab Lestrange."

Hermione was very proud of the way she kept her hand from shaking as she gestured at Marius, his back turned away from her as he spoke with the older men in the group. She tilted her head to one side, exposing her neck as she asked, "Could you possibly hold this for me a moment while I freshen up? My companion seems busy.”

She had no idea how he was going to react, but the polite nod and sparkle of intrigue in his brown eyes was not one Hermione Granger had ever thought to see directed at her by one of the Lestrange brothers. She handed the goblet to him before she could change her mind. As she stepped carefully through the crowds, she could feel his eyes on her.

A pretty, buxom blonde saw her hovering at the back of the room and took pity on her. "Looking for the ladies, love?"

Hermione nodded. "Come with me, duck, I need a break myself."

The girl - Effie, as she'd introduced herself - led Hermione into an opulent marbled bathroom and hoiked herself up to sit on the counter as Hermione used the loo. When she emerged, Effie was lighting a cigarette with her wand, blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. She offered it to Hermione once she'd washed her hands and when Hermione shook her head, pulled a battered steel flask from her clutch bag.

"It's gin, I can't take that Firewhisky rot."

Hermione took a deep swig, grimacing a little at the cheap spirit.

"Better than nowt, love. This your first time?"

"Is it that obvious?"

The other woman chuckled and took a deep drag on her cigarette.

"I'm here as - well, I'm someone's guest," said Hermione. "And you?"

Effie shrugged. "I'm here as anyone's guest, love. Be careful, duck, if you're not usually in this line of work. Most of the men here aren't particularly possessive as the night goes on."

Hermione took another deep swig from the proffered flask. "Have you been here a few times? What's it like, later?"

Effie Vanished the stub from her cigarette and lit another. This time Hermione accepted one when it was offered.

"It's alright, love. Better than Knockturn. Things can get a bit wild when they've all had a few, especially when the Potions come out. Keep an open mind. You're best with some of the youngest, if your man passes you over. They're shyer, and quicker to please, if you know what to do.” She poked her tongue into the side of her mouth twice and Hermione spluttered on her cigarette.

"Thanks for the tip."

Effie gave her a lascivious wink. "Practising your lines for later, love?"

Hermione giggled. "How did you end up here, Effie?"

The older girl shrugged. "My mother was a witch, my Dad a Muggle. And a prize cunt. Left my mam when I was little, her folks had kicked her out when she got pregnant so she were on her own. No money, like. She managed to get me through to Fifth Year at Hogwarts, then I was on my own, you know. I worked in a couple of pubs, made a few mistakes with the wrong sort of men, until one of them made me realise I might as well be paid for it rather than giving it away for free. A few years later, and I got this as a regular gig.

This was a side of her world Hermione had never experienced and she felt ashamed at her ignorance.

"Is it safe?"

Effie finished her cigarette and cast a charm to freshen the air. "It could be a lot worse, love." She leant over to tidy a loose curl of Hermione's hair. "I've heard. Well. There's worse things out there. I might be a whore, but I'm a Halfblood whore. There's rumours..." She bit her lip. "Well. Some men have darker tastes. I wouldn't want to be near some of them if I were a Muggle, put it that way."

Hermione leant closer. "What happens to them, Effie? If you know I might be able to..."

The bathroom door banged open and the two girls jumped. A tall, attractive woman with jet-black ringlets curled her lip at them as she barged past into the toilet.

"Time for us to go, love," Effie hissed, pulling Hermione by the wrist. As they headed back to the party Effie muttered into her ear. "Just you stay away from what they call the _revels,_ girl, whatever you do."

She fixed a teasing smile on her face and steered Hermione back into the crowd. Rabastan Lestrange, now standing with two other young men, toasted her with her wine glass when he spotted her, eyes glittering, and Effie gave her a little push toward him. "Stick with the young ones, love. Good luck."

Hermione swallowed and made her way over, thanking Lestrange as he smirked down at her. He had a dimple in his cheek. The contrast between the handsome youth and the ravaged fanatic she'd fought at the Department of Mysteries in her fifth year was frightening. He looked so _normal._

Lestrange threw a heavy arm over her shoulder and bent to whisper in her ear. He smelt strongly of whisky and expensive cologne. "Bet you're glad to get away from that stuffy old crowd. I have to meet with some people, soon, my brother's waiting for me, but I'll leave you with some friends and find you later, if you’ve been a _good_ _girl_."

Hermione concealed a shudder and smiled up at him, weakly. His lip quirked and he cupped her chin with his large hand. "This one's _mine_ , lads," he smirked, running his thumb over her bottom lip. He bit his his own at her in teasing frustration, before sauntering away, snatching a fresh glass from a tray as he passed.

Hermione turned, shaken, to get a look at Lestrange's companions. She still had a job to do, after all. She glanced at the man to her left and -

" _Sirius?!_ Oh, sorry, I'm so sorry, I thought you were - _"_

He looked her up and down and then rolled his eyes dramatically. "Of _course,_ every loose woman in Britain knows my brother."

Hermione's eyes flashed. She'd had about enough of these pricks, honestly. Perving over every inch of skin in sight, then judging the women, who were just trying to make a living. This git's poncy robes probably cost more than Effie's yearly rent. How _dare_ Regulus Black - she presumed that’s who this wanker was - call _her_ loose while blatantly eyeing up her tits.

"Actually, I'm here with your uncle, not your brother. I was going to work my way through the family in order of age but I find I've changed my mind. You’re off the hook.”

The third man sniggered, shaking limp, dark hair from his eyes and -

_Oh, motherfucking-_

It was Severus Snape.


	10. Sins Of Commission And Omission

It was, _unmistakeably_ , him. Everyone else she'd met in this strange place looked so different from the people she'd known twenty years later, but not Snape. In his early twenties, his face was still defined by the hooked nose and strong jaw, his black eyes sharp and suspicious under thick, arched eyebrows. His hair was still limp and badly styled, but was clean and shining, without the premature threads of grey at the temples.

He quirked a condesending eyebrow at her, his cold black eyes fixed on hers, and she felt like a schoolgirl again, suddenly overcome with the need to start reciting the twelve uses of dragon's blood with her hand waving in the air.

His eyes travelled from her face down towards her décolletage, and the mild sense of terror she'd always felt on facing her Potions Professor faded a little as the flush of pink across his cheeks contradicted his disdainful expression.

"Can I get you another drink?" he snapped at her, abruptly.

Regulus sniffed haughtily and waved his hand dismissively toward Hermione.

"I think that's what _she's_ here for, Sev. I certainly can't see any other use for her."

Snape gave them both a withering look, before pushing his way toward the nearest full tray. Hermione scowled at Regulus. She was rapidly losing patience with the part she had to play. He pointedly ignored her, brushing invisible lint off his velvet robes, tweaking them so they hung straight on his lean frame. _Merlin's nads,_ he really was a snobbish little twat.

Snape reappeared and thrust a brimming wine glass at her with a blush and a scowl, before handing a crystal whisky tumbler to Regulus.

"Thank you," she said, smiling. Snape gave a tiny shrug and looked down toward the shiny toes of his shoes before catching a glimpse of her bare leg through the long split of her dress. His eyes bugged, slightly.

Regulus snorted softly and clapped Snape on the shoulder. " _Severus_ here has just received his Mastery, you know. Youngest in half a century. He's had three job offers tonight already."

Snape's head shot up and he gave Regulus a dirty look.

"Congratulations," said Hermione. "You must be very proud. What did you apprentice in? What was your thesis about?"

"Undetectable poisons", Snape replied, gruffly.

Hermione concealed a smirk behind her goblet, remembering a particularly nasty essay _Professor Snape_ had once assigned to his third year class.

"Oh, that's interesting, I've always been more interested in antidotes and antivenins myself though. What do you think of Borage's work on the antidote to common poisons?"

The corner of Snape's lip twitched and he looked at her for a second or two before launching into a scathing attack on Borage's theories. Hermione, who'd expected this reaction, having read the caustic commentaries scribbled throughout Severus' old copy of Borage's Advanced Potion-Making, gave Regulus a tiny, smug glance. He whispered something in Severus' ear, causing the faint blush to reappear, then turned to speak to an older man to his left.

* * *

Half an hour and another glass of wine later, Regulus returned, interrupting a spirited discussion between Hermione and Severus, who'd managed to find an empty sofa. Hermione was enjoying their debate, and the rather endearing way Snape carefully avoided looking anywhere between her ankle and her collarbone.

Regulus attempted a smirk, but his face looked rather tense and pinched. "Severus, they're asking for us."

Snapes' shoulders straightened and the cold, impassive look of his older years shuttered down over his face. He rose and nodded rather briskly at Hermione, before Regulus held up a hand, his cheek dimpling as he suppressed a smile. "You've a moment to say goodbye to your new - er - _friend_ , Sev. It's not often you find yourself a pretty bookworm."

Severus looked uncomfortable, but bowed neatly from his waist toward Hermione.

"Did you ask her name?" Regulus hissed in a stage-whisper.

Severus glowered darkly, but turned stiffly to Hermione and asked, "I have some essays that might be of interest to you, Miss, if you might permit me to..."

Hermione took pity on him, carefully using the alias Moody had created for her. "Send any letters to Helen Gregory, care of the Leaky. I collect my post from there."

He gave a small nod and the two men left. Hermione stifled a giggle as she heard Regulus murmuring under his breath. "Send her _essays_ , Sev?! _Merlin_ , it's like you don't _want_ to get laid."

Sobering a little, Hermione wondered what to do next. She had an hour before she needed to make her way out to the Apparition point to meet Moody, having agreed that Marius would make his own way home. The room was getting overheated, loud with drunken shouts and laugher, men openly fondling the women, who smiled tiredly and submitted to their fumbling caresses. Some couples had started to drift off to find more private spaces, while others, uncaring, sprawled over the opulent furniture. Hermione spotted Effie, who gave a wink and exaggerated eye-roll over the shoulder of a future Head of Muggle Liaison, his head buried in her neck and his hand sliding under the hem of her frock.

She couldn't see herself finding more out here, with everyone completely sozzled, and she _was_ curious where Regulus and Snape had disappeared to. She'd also seen no sign of Malfoy, despite hearing confirmation that he'd financed the evening. Hermione made her way carefully out of the room into the dimly-lit corridor, heels sinking into the thick pile of the dark green carpet. She felt a slight unease, and slipped her wand from her clutch into her palm. She could hear muffled voices through a slightly-open door and wished she had a pair of George Weasley's extendable ears. Instead, she cast a Disillusionment charm on herself and edged closer, sure she could hear Lucius Malfoy's supercilious tone, as well as a deep, cultured voice she didn't recognise. Peering through the crack she saw a group of men, standing in a circle, with one, curly-haired, haughty looking woman, her hand resting on the arm of the tall, handsome older man next to her. There was a lone figure in the centre of the ring, draped in black robes and clutching desperately at his forearm.

Hermione started slightly at a sudden, cool breeze across the back of her neck, leaning closer to try and hear the words the tall, distingushed man was saying. She froze at the touch of firm lips on the nape of her neck, a strong hand gripping her wrist. Her wand clattered uselessly to the floor beside her. _Shite._

"I thought I told you to be a _good girl,"_ Lestrange mumbled into her ear, his wand pressed against her spine.

* * *

Hermione was far from stupid, and seven years of near-constant danger had taught her that sometimes it was wise to act docilely and wait for a better opportunity to fight back. So far, Lestrange seemed reluctant to alert those in the room to her presence, and she did _not_ want to experience the consequences of being dragged into a room full of Death Eaters. She allowed Lestrange to drag her along the corridor, until he pushed her into a darkened alcove. Sensing he did not want to be found any more than he did, she began to struggle against him in earnest, as he clamped his hand over her nose and mouth and kicked her legs apart. He slurred drunkenly in her ear, trailing wet lips down the line of her neck and grinding himself up against her. In his drunken excitement, he seemed to have forgotten to use magic altogether, cursing as she bit the fingers covering her mouth. His eyes glittered, and he shoved his forearm hard across her neck, pinning her in place as she choked, before he used his free hand to fumble at the slit in her dress. He gave a lopsided smirk as the seam tore to her waist and dropped his hand to rummage in his robes.

Despite his drunkenness Hermione felt a sickening terror. Without her wand there were few spells she could cast that would be strong enough to blast him away from her, he was tall and strong and she was struggling to breathe as his arm crushed her neck. She pushed frantically at him as he panted, his hand moving rapidly under his robes. Perhaps he was too drunk to get hard enough...

He was swearing under his breath, looking down at himself as Hermione's hand twisted in his robes. Frantically thinking of a wandless spell she could perform, she remembered Ron's desperate shout from her First Year, trapped by Devils Snare.

_"Are you a witch, or what?"_

Hermione twitched her fingers and a small, blue, flicker of flame ignited, spreading from her palm onto the shoulder of Lestrange's expensive dress robes. The flames flickered and grew as Lestrange chuckled gleefully at himself, forcing her knees further open, rolling his shoulder as the fire crept closer to his ear.

When the flames caught at the ends of his long hair he stared at Hermione in shock before thrusting himself back from the wall, slapping at his burning neck and shoulder. Hermione shoved past him and fled, breath catching in sobs, until she ran straight into a tall, blonde, mountain of a man.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he asked in complete confusion, face darkening as he took in her ripped dress and bruised throat.

Lestrange lurched out into the corridor, hair singed and robes smoking.

"That bitch set me on _fire,_ Thor. Give her _back,_ I'm going to show that little cunt what..."

_Thor?_

Finn pushed Hermione to his side and drew himself up to his full, considerable height.

"Aye, she's a bit feisty, this one. She's _mine,_ though, Bast, and you know I don't like to share."

"But she's a - she's just a -" spluttered Lestrange

"Be that as it may, she's not for you. Been seeing each other for a while, haven't we, witch."

Lestrange glared up at him, mouth twisting spitefully.

"She was _spying_ , Thor. I caught her. What do you think _he'd_ do to her, to you, if I went in there and told them your pretty little slut was watching? Your father is there, he was going to make an introduction for you, you could have taken your Mark tonight!”

Hermione's spine stiffened. _Fuck,_ had she managed to get herself into an even worse position? Who the bloody hell was -

Finn glanced back at Hermione, face unreadable.

"It looks like you've punished her enough, Bast. Besides, I reckon you were looking for _me,_ weren't you, little dove?"

Hermione paused, weighing up her options, then nodded frantically. Finn pulled her closer, his arm around her waist, thumb grazing the underside of her breast. He gave her a suggestive smirk before looking back at Lestrange, smugly.

"She can't be without me for long, can you, precious? What do you want to do, stay, or are you ready to go somewhere more private, hmm?"

"Go," muttered Hermione, crossing her fingers.

Finn chuckled, richly. "See, Bast? _Insatiable_ , she is, my witch. You'll understand if I take my leave?"

Lestrange scowled. "What about...?"

"You'll tell them you couldn't find me and I'll not let on you disappeared when you were meant to be on guard."

"I only went for a slash," muttered Lestrange, mutinously, before weaving away, mumbling under his breath.

Finn let out a deep sigh. "Never could hold his drink, that boy. Are you alright, princess? Let's get you away."

He held her hand in his own, much larger one as he led Hermione toward the entrance hall. He dipped their joined hands into the warm pocket of his robes and she felt the smooth wood of her wand. "Found it on the floor before you ran into me, I'm guessing its yours? How are you getting home, love? Can you Apparate, now you have your wand?"

Hermione nodded, shivering in the draughty hallway. Finn frowned, then opened a door and tugged her in to the small space, lighting it with a muttered _lumos_. A closet. He lifted an expensive looking cloak from its hook and swirled it around her shoulders with a flourish.

"That’s better.”

He led her out onto the stone verandah and peered down at her, touching the darkening bruises on her neck, gently. "It's your business how you make a living, darling, but our kind of men...they'll chew you up and spit you out. They're - we're - these are dark times, girl. I don't know where you came from, but you'd be best going back there."

"What about you? Will there be consequences for you?”

He gave her a lopsided smile. "My father has had certain plans for me.” He tapped the side of his head with a finger. “Too many bludgers to the head, I tend to do as I’m told, you know. I don’t disagree with everything his friends believe in, but I’m not sure I’m cut out for politicking.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps this is a sign, princess. Perhaps someone's dropped you into my lap, with your mad hair and your horrible clothes, to stop me making a mistake. I got a letter today, about a job abroad. Been thinking I could take it, avoid having to join up to anything here. Would you give me a kiss, for luck?"

He lifted Hermione up onto her toes and kissed her enthusiastically, opening her mouth and sliding his tongue skilfully against hers until she sighed softly into his mouth. Thor - Finn - whatever, he was a bloody good kisser.

He let her go reluctantly, with a ruffle of her curls. "I like it better when its wild. You can Apparate out once you're past the fountain. I'd wish you luck, too, but I think any lass who can set Rab Lestrange on fire without a wand is going to be okay. Off you go, pet. Thanks for the kiss.”

Hermione grinned and slipped off her shoes to run across the damp grass. At the stone fountain she turned back to wave when a waft of cigar smoke hit her nose and a fierce voice muttered, "Fucking _finally!_ What the bloody hell happened to you?" Hermione scowled. "Can we get out of here before we start the interrogation please, Sir?"

Moody eyed her suspiciously before stubbing out his cigarillo and offering his arm. "De-briefing. You can tell me all about why you looked so _friendly_ with Thorfinn Rowle. His Pa's a Death Eater, you know."

* * *

Hermione slumped across Moody's desk, a chipped, steaming mug of strong tea in front of her. She'd given her briefing as Moody furiously scribbled notes, his head lifting in surprise and disgust at the names she mentioned and the conversations she repeated. When she described spying on the sinister group in the Library and the unpleasant mauling by Rabastan Lestrange, he gripped the quill so hard it snapped in his fist. He'd stomped off, muttering under his breath, and plonked the mug of strong, sweet tea in front of her, before disappearing again.

Hermione rested her tired head on her folded arms. _Thorfinn Rowle -_ in her time he'd been a marked Death Eater. Big and blonde, still, but bearded, with a hard, rugged face. He'd attacked her, Harry and Ron in an all-night caff in London, when they were on the run after Voldemort's return. She felt a tiny squirm of guilt, remembering how she'd Obliviated him after they'd won the brief duel. She presumed he'd been at the Battle of Hogwarts, although she couldn't remember seeing him, and he'd escaped afterward, a wanted criminal. The last she'd heard, he'd been killed in a gang rivalry over illegal betting rings. And she’d _snogged_ him. Something she’d keep very much to herself.

Had Finn really become that man? Had this been the night he’d taken the Mark? Had she changed something, by being here? For the good or for the bad? Would it make a difference?

" _Psst_!"

Hermione twisted in her chair to see Sirius' grinning face. "You alright, love? Moody called me in to take you home, said it was a rough night."

She yawned widely. "I'm alright. Your brother is a knob, by the way."

Sirius' eyes hardened. "Did _Reggie_ do that to you? _"_

"No," she sighed, yawning again. "Come on, I'll tell you everything on the way."

Sirius led the way out of Moody's office. "Are you going to tell me about how you got off with a suspect? Cos, if it's true, it'll really take the heat off me next time I cock up."

"Of course I didn't get off with a suspect," she snapped at his back, face flushed, waiting till he rounded the corner before muttering, under her breath. "More than once."


	11. Interlude

* * *

The Daily Prophet, 11th November 1979

_...In other Quidditch news, the Ballycastle Bats will commence trials today, seeking a mid-season replacement for their missing Beater. As reported in this paper on Friday 9th November, T. Rowle, 27, has been missing since owling his resignation letter to club owner and manager Dara Lynch last week. Initial reports of sabotage by league rivals Appleby Arrows are unsubstantiated and hotly denied by team captain Andy Armstrong, who claims Rowle has accepted a coaching role in the Scandinavian League, under his mother's maiden name. When contacted, the Rowle estate declined to comment..._

* * *

MEMO - DMLE 12/11/79

ATTACK ON WIZARDING VILLAGE IN WALES DEATH EATER INVOLVEMENT SUSPECTED ALL AURORS REPORT FOR BRIEFING IMMEDIATELY. THIS ITEM IS NOT FOR PRESS REPEAT NOT FOR PRESS.

* * *

AUROR INCIDENT REPORT #2356

INVESTIGATING OFFICERS: S.O. Black H.J Granger

DATE: 13/11/1979

ADDRESS: TŵR MAWR, YNYS LLANDWYN, ANGLESEY

WITNESS: MRS MYFANWY MORRIS

STATEMENT:

SB: Thank you for speaking to us, I appreciate it's late. Can you tell us about what happened tonight, Mrs Morris?

MM: I went to bed early last night and slept quite soundly until I was woken up by my Kneazle, Filomena, scratching on the door. I thought it was a bit odd as she normally settles quite happily but something had her spooked. I took her through to the kitchen for a saucer of milk and that's when I heard it.

SB: What did you hear, Mrs Morris?

MM: [pauses] Smashes, like a window pane shattering. Screaming. I was too frightened to look at first but Filomena got out of the cat flap so I had to chase after her.

SB: That was very brave Mrs Morris. Can you tell me what you saw when you left the house?

MM: Thank you, Officer. You can call me Myfanwy, you know?

SB: Mrs Morris...?

MM: It was hard to see, it was raining so heavily and I was trying not to trip. I tried to cast a lumos so I could find Filomena but instead of my wand lighting, all of a sudden everything glowed with a green light, it was very eerie.

SB: Did you see anything else out of the ordinary?

MM: Oh yes, young man. When I looked up I saw the light was coming from above the Dearborn's cottage. It was a giant skull, made up of green smoke. It was the Dark Mark, I'm sure of it.

SB: Is that when you called in the Aurors?

MM: Oh, no, I was a duelling champion in my youth, boy. Taught by Galatea Merrythought, I was. I went over there to see if I could help, they had two young children, you know [INTERVIEW PAUSED]

SB: You're doing very well, this must be upsetting for you.

MM: Thank you. I got over there as quickly as I could. I managed to get off a few hexes but I heard loud cracks where they must have Apparated. When I got to the door, I saw Mrs Dearborn on the floor and it was clear she was dead. That's when I called you in.

SB: Did you get a look at any of the potential offenders?

MM: They wore long dark cloaks and masks. White, or silvery, they caught the light. One had long, very long hair. Almost waist length. I would have thought it a woman but the shoulders were far too broad. I'm sorry, that's not much to go on.

SB: That's really helpful, Mrs Morris. Thank you.

MM: Is it true what they said in the paper? That Mr Dearborn was killed for claiming they've infiltrated the...

SB: I'm afraid we can't comment on that, Mrs Morris. Could you read through this statement and sign it for me, please?

* * *

_H, babe -_

_Pub?_

_SB_

* * *

_S-_

_Pub._

_H x_

_PS Stop calling me babe, it's unprofessional. And sexist._

* * *

_Granger -_

_7pm. We're going Muggle._

_S xxx_

_PS sexist or_ sexiest _?_

* * *

_S -_

_Piss off._

_See you at 7._

_Regards,_

_HG_

_PS What charm do you use on these post - it notes?_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Just for fun, not for profit. Anything you recognise is not mine.


End file.
